

Class rV v t .. 

Book 

Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

























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A MADCAP 

310 

60,3 

BY 

MRS. L. T. MEADE 

AUTHOR OF “THE GIRLS OF MRS. PRITCHARD’S SCHOOL,” 
“TEMPTATION OF OLIVE LATIMER,” “TIME OF 
ROSES,” “THE MANOR SCHOOL,” ETC. 


With Eight Full- page Illustrations 

BY 

HAROLD COPPING 




THE MERSHON COMPANY 

RAHWAY, N. J. NEW YORK 


Copyright IQ04 , by 

William T. Belding 


fZ -1 




Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 


> f CONGRESS 

| TVvv» ^unipf 

I OCT 14 1904 

• » ^ooyrteht Entrv 

7T)a^f2£,./qo4- 

CLASS C\ XXo. No. 

^7^3# 

COPY B 





CONTENTS 


r 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I How the Story Began i 

II How the News was Received .... 7 

III “Dreadless is Mine” 21 

IV His New Quarters 32 

V A Mean Revenge 39 

VI Best of Dogs 47 

VII The Angel Picture 59 

VIII Preparing for the Departure .... 70 

IX Hal’s Mysterious Illness 82 

X The Accident 90 

XI “ I think my heart will break ”... 103 
XII Mr. Brewster Brings News 112 

Part II 

I Miss Ferrier 123 

II The Appearance of Fernandez . . . .132 

III Inez Takes an Early Walk . . . . . 140 

IV The White Stone in the Shrubbery . .153 

V Briar Hall 169 

VI “He has not kept his word” .... 180 

VII Dorothy Writes to Her Mother . . .185 

VIII Inez Has Tea with Miss Ferrier . . .187 

IX The Picnic in the Woods 195 

X Inez Spends an Anxious Week . . . .205 

XI A Secret Visit to Sir Guy’s Castle . .214 

XII A Night of Terror 227 

XIII The Empty Room . 240 

XIV A Full Confession and Forgiveness . .254 





LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

r 


PAGE 

“‘You Hate Me, don’t You? Tell Me the 

Truth!’ ” Frontispiece 

“‘You’re Telling a Lie,’ said Hal, Striding up 

to Her ” 31 

“‘I Did It,’ She Said with a Laugh. ‘They 

are My Flowers’” 46 

“ ‘ Will You Help Me to be a Good Girl ? ’” . 73 

“ He Looked so Suspiciously at Hal” ... 92 

“‘You have no Right to Speak to Me like 


That ’” 108 

“ ‘ Have You Got Them for Me, have you Got 

Them?’” 160 

“‘I’m a Stranger Here,’ said Inez” .... 221 






A Madcap 

r 

CHAPTER I 
How the Story Began 

W ELL, this happened in a very sad way, for Father 
was killed in South Africa. He met his death in a 
glorious manner, it is true, and the children felt 
that all their lives long they would be proud of his memory, 
and learn to follow in his steps. 

Mother, too, in the midst of all her tears, and with her 
heart nearly broken, could not help saying: 

“We must try more than ever now to be good and worthy 
of him. I, in particular, must always endeavour to do 
exactly what he would like, could he still see me, and you 
children must help me.” 

The children felt very proud of their mother when she 
spoke, and confident that they could help her, and also 
that they would. They all clustered round her, and little 
Violet, aged three, climbed on her kne$, and put her sweet 
chubby arms round her neck. 

“S’all me tiss oo more’n ever, Muzzie, now, as Daddy’s 
dorn?” she asked. 

But Dorothy trembled when Violet spoke, and David 
put his broad, brown, boyish hand on his mother’s shoulder. 

“I’ll do my very best,” he said in a husky voice, and the 
others came still closer, and were silent. 

The children’s name was Dering. There were six of 
them: David, aged twelve; Dorothy, eleven; then Hal and 

[i] 


A MADCAP 


Suzette, twins of nine; Christopher was nearly seven, and 
Violet, aged three, was the baby and pet of the house. 
During Father’s lifetime, they all lived in a beautiful place 
called Dering Towers, in Hampshire, and although Father 
served his king and country in the army, he was also lord 
of the manor, and owner of one of the finest estates in Eng- 
land. 

At his father’s death, everyone supposed that David, 
when he came of age, would inherit the beautiful place, and 
be a great and rich man, and be lord of the manor in his 
turn, and they also said: 

“What a good thing it is for poor Mrs. Dering that in 
the midst of her troubles she at least need not think about 
moving, but will be able to stay on in her lovely home and 
bring up her children properly.” 

But little did these people know what really was to take 
place. 

Now long ago Colonel Dering had a brother, older than 
himself, who went to the West Indies and died there very 
suddenly of yellow fever, and it was after his death that the 
children’s father became the owner of Dering Towers, 
which would have belonged to his brother had he lived. 

Colonel Dering was very sorry when his brother died, 
but he took the beautiful home, and all the land and all the 
money, with thankfulness, and never for a moment sup- 
posed that these gifts, precious (when rightly used), could 
be taken away from him and his children. So the gallant, 
brave colonel fell, leading his troops to victory, but com- 
forting himself in his dying moments by the reflection that 
his wife and children were provided for. But this is what 
really happened, and it is because of this the story has to 
be written. 

One day, when Mrs. Dering had been a widow about 
three months, her lawyer came down from London to see 
her, and sat with her a long time, and talked to her most 
earnestly, and explained something to her so fully, and with 

M ' 


HOW THE STORY BEGAN 


such proofs of the truth of his words, that she could never 
doubt him again. When he left her she continued to sit 
on alone in her husband’s study, and once she looked round 
the beautiful room with its rich oak carvings, and once she 
put her hand to her head as though to steady herself, for 
this was what had befallen her. The lawyer had brought 
her strange news indeed, for the elder brother, who had 
died so suddenly in the West Indies, had left a wife and 
child behind him, and his child was the real heiress of 
Dering Towers, and also of all the land, and all the money 
in the bank. The wife was dead — she died about six 
months ago, and it was on her death-bed she confessed that 
she was the widow of Clement Dering, and that her child, a 
girl of between twelve and thirteen years of age, was the 
rightful owner of Dering Towers. The child was already 
in England, and her mother’s relations -wished her to live 
at the Towers, and the lawyer said she certainly had the 
right to do so if she wished. So Mrs. Dering, the mother 
of the children, whose story I am about to tell you, knew 
that she was poor, not rich, and that she had very little 
money indeed with which to bring up her children. For a 
short time she certainly felt very sad and troubled, but then, 
having a brave heart, she asked God for strength, and then 
she sent for David and told him everything. 

“I want you to tell the others,” she said in conclusion. 
“You know everything now, and you are a brave boy, just 
like your dear father. We must go away at once, and begin 
our new life, the life I have been describing to you; so the 
sooner the others know the better. Talk to Dorothy to- 
night, and between you both you can break it to the rest 
to-morrow.” 

“Yes, Mother,” answered David, with a break in his 
voice, and then he kissed her (that kiss reminded her of 
his father), and then he went to find Dorothy. 

It was a lovely summer day, and Dorothy in her white 
dress and black ribbons was swinging Christopher and 

[3] 


A MADCAP 


Violet by turns in a swing at one end of the garden, and 
laughing quite merrily as she amused her brother and sister. 
David did not like the sound of Dorothy’s laughter. It 
seemed to hurt him even more than what his mother had 
said. 

/‘But I’m the son of a soldier,” he said to himself. “I 
wouldn’t funk anything for the world.” 

“Dolly,” he said aloud, “I want to talk to you. Come 
to the bow r er.” 

“No, no. Go away, Dave,” called Violet. 

Dorothy stopped swinging her little sister, and stared at 
David. She had a very comprehending face, and no wiser 
eyes were ever put into any head. 

“There’s Suzette; she’ll swing you, children,” she cried. 
“Suzette, take my place for a little. Dave wants me. 
Now then, David.” 

The two plunged into a shrubbery close by, and a mo- 
ment later were seated in the rose bower. 

From time immemorial the rose bower was the place for 
real important confidences in the Dering family, and 
Dorothy knew well that David had not invited her to go 
with him there for nothing. 

“What is it?” she said, leaning back as she spoke, and 
panting slightly. Then, alarmed at David’s silence, she 
leant forward to peer into his face. She noticed that his 
mouth was working considerably, and that his eyes were 
queer. 

“Oh, Dave, what is wrong?” questioned his sister. 

“I won't be a coward,” was his answer. “One moment, 
Dolly!” 

He sprang up and rushed from the bower. Dorothy 
knew that he was crying. David crying! When he cried 
last, it was the day they had all heard the news of Father’s 
death, and even then he had not cried long. He was too 
busy comforting other people and trying to wipe away their 
tears. He had sat alone with Mother for hours in the dark, 

[ 4 ] 


HOW THE STORY BEGAN 


holding her hand, and had never once let it go, even when 
she fell asleep, and he began to suffer from awful cramp 
owing to the stiffness of his position. But David never did 
think of himself. That was why he cried so little, and was 
always such a strong, real comfort to others. 

Yet he was crying now. No, he wasn’t. He was back 
again, with a smile on his face, and courage in his eyes. 

“Now, then, Dorothy, prepare for something. You and 
I have got to be the plucky ones, or Mother will suffer.” 

“All right,” said Dorothy. She set her lips straight and 
drew' herself up. 

“This is the thing in a nutshell, Doll — Mother has been 
talking to me. She wants you to know too, and all the 
others to-morrow. Of course, it’s pretty bad, and — Well, 
you listen! Mother has lost all her money! Stop a bit, 
hear me out. Mother’s poor, and so are we. I’m not heir 
to Dering Towers, or to anything at all, and Mother will 
have what’s called a pittance; that is, a few hundreds a year 
instead of thousands. Oh! of course you can’t under- 
stand, nor can I, but it’s true.” 

“Why?” gasped poor Dorothy at last. 

“I forgot, I haven’t told you that part. You remember 
hearing of Father’s brother, Uncle Clement, who died the 
year before I was born ? His picture hangs in the gallery, 
just where the morning sun falls across his face. We used 
to call it the angel face; you used to say, ‘He was so good 
God took him away while he was young.’ Well, he was 
married, although he never told us, and his wife died a short 
time ago, and she told the true story when she was dying, 
and left papers to show that her story is true, and we’ve a 
cousin, a girl, a little older than me, and Dering Towers 
belongs to her, and all the money and everything. She’s 
in England, and her name is Inez. Her mother was a 
Spaniard, and she’s not a bit English, nor like us. But 
she’s the owner of Dering Towers. Well, Dorothy, that’s 
the news — what do you think ? ” 

[5] 


A MADCAP 


“Let me think,” was Dorothy’s answer. Her hands > 
folded in her lap, and her wise eyes looked out straigh 
fore her. She was gazing at a great bank of roses c 
colours and sizes and sorts. After a time she seemed to 
herself together and to collect her thoughts. 

“It’s a good thing Father didn’t know of this,” she said. 

“Yes, Dorothy, that’s what Mother said too.” 

“And, of course, we must go away,” was Dorothy’s next 
remark. 

“Oh, yes, as soon as ever we can. Mother is r 
anxious on that point, for she says we have no right to 
thing more here, and Inez, of course, wants to come to 
here. Mother says she could stay on here, and keep us 
and be a sort of guardian to Inez, but she just feels she ca 
and Inez will have some Spanish relations to come and lo 
after her. Oh, won’t it be a change! Think of it!” 

“We haven’t got to think about what Inez does,” replied 
Dorothy. “Let’s go to Mother now.” 

“Doll, you and I must be the brave ones.” 

“Rather!” replied Dorothy. 

“And we must tell the others.” 

“Yes, but not to-night. Mother is the one to be thought 
of to-night. Let’s go and find her.” 


[ 6 ] 


CHAPTER II 

How the News was Received 

By the next morning all the children had been told the 

d news. They took it according to their several natures, 
did not mind at all. It only meant more kisses to 
er. Mother was sorrowful, and Violet’s cure for all 
w was to press her rosy lips against the dear cheek, 
'ook with the love of her baby heart into the sweet eyes, 
tng bestowed her kiss, she did not think anything more 
Ait the matter. Where Mother was, was Violet’s home, 
^hristopher, too, was not greatly concerned. 

“What’s the use of making a fuss?” he said. “If we has 
to go, we has. I’m rather glad. It’ll be fun packing, and 
'oing away in the big train.” 

But Hal and Suzette were old enough to be really sorry. 
They took the news gravely, and went away afterwards to 
consult by themselves about what was to be done with the 
dogs. For instance, how many dogs would Mother let 
them take away with them ? Crena, the lovely little Pome- 
ranian, would go as a matter of course, and so would Chum, 
the fat pug. But what about Tocsin, the big bloodhound, 
and Dreadless, the Dane? 

Oh, of course, they must go, and Mother would not hear 
of doing without them. 

“We have but to ask her,” said Hal. 

“She’ll see me crying my eyes out if she refuses,” said 
Suzette. 

“And Mother would never like to hurt anybody,” con- 
tinued Hal, “so that settles it. Let’s go and catch stickle- 
backs in the pond, Susy.” 

So they went, and were happy, for in reality they had 

[ 7 ] 


A MADCAP 


never known real sorrow; even the death of their father was 
scarcely understood by them, for they always thought that 
he must come back some day. But the elder children, 
David and Dorothy, really knew what things meant. They 
had a long conversation with their mother, and were ex- 
tremely sensible, and made clever suggestions with regard 
to ways and means. Mrs. Dering wished to go to France 
for a couple of years, and she told the children that she had 
already written to make enquiries as to cheap places where 
they could also be well educated. While she was talking, 
Port, the dear old butler who had known the family all their 
lives, brought his mistress a telegram. Mrs. Dering opened 
it, and David saw that her face turned paler than ever. 

“This is a little hard, children,” she said, when the ser- 
vant had left the room. “I did not expect this — at least, 
not so soon. Your cousin Inez will be here by tea-time, and 
she asks to be put up, for her aunt, Donna Feranzi, has 
scarlet fever in her family, and Inez has nowhere else to go 
to.” 

“ Oh, Mother! ” was Dorothy’s remark, and David said — 

“How are we to bear this?” 

“By being busy and forgetting ourselves,” was Mrs. 
Dering’s answer. “Yes, I own that it is hard, but we won’t 
think of that any more. Run, Dorothy, and ask Harriet 
to prepare the rose room next yours for Inez — and David, 
tell Jetson to take the carriage to meet the 4.10 train. You 
had better go with him, David — for you can help your 
cousin. And now leave me, children, for I have a great 
deal to do.” 

Notwithstanding all their trouble, the rest of the day was 
spent in great excitement, and although she was firmly con- 
vinced in her own mind that she could never be happy again, 
Dorothy kept up for the sake of the others, 

By the time Inez arrived her room was as fresh and sweet 
and pretty as any little girl could desire. Dorothy herself 
put roses everywhere. She had drawn a most delightful 
[ 8 ] 


HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED 


armchair close to the open window, and had placed some 
of her own most dearly loved story-books on a little table 
near. 

“She will be sure to like ‘Anna Ross’ and ‘The Fairchild 
Family,”’ thought Dorothy, and then she paused in her 
occupations and looked around her. 

For a short time, in the interest of busy tasks, she had 
forgotten reality — but now the full meaning of the truth 
rushed over her. The girl for whose comfort she had been 
so eager was no ordinary guest, but the owner of the dear 
old home. This room was hers, and so was Dorothy’s, and 
so was Mother’s. Poor Dorothy felt her heart sinking as if 
it would break, and then suddenly she burst into tears. She 
had scarcely time, however, to wipe them away when the 
sound of carriage wheels, stopping before the front door, 
told her that Inez had come. She rushed downstairs, for at 
any cost Mother must be helped. A heavy-looking, sallow 
girl was being led up the steps by David. Mother was 
standing on the top step — the other children were ' in the 
background. Dorothy took her stand behind little Violet. 
She saw the strange girl raise two lovely eyes as if in appeal 
to Mother, and Mother answered to the look by taking her 
in her arms. 

“Welcome, Inez,” she said. “Welcome to your home. 
Dorothy, this is Inez. Children, this is your cousin.” 

“Tanta Marcia said you would be jealous,” was Inez’s 
reply. 

“Oh, no, dear,” answered Mother. 

“I am so sorry,” began Inez faintly. 

“Take her to her room, Dorothy,” said Mother, as if she 
could bear no more, and Dorothy took her cousin upstairs. 

Inez was unlike any other girl Dorothy had ever seen. 
In one sense she was remarkably plain, for her face was 
sallow and her features somewhat large; but she had most 
beautiful eyes, capable of every sort of feeling. When any- 
thing moved her she could look so sweet and so sorrowful 

[9] 


A MADCAP 


that it would be impossible not to love her; but if she was 
annoyed, she could look, on the other hand, angry, disdain- 
ful, proud, even spiteful. Whatever she felt, her eyes told, 
so that to look at her was to look at an open book. Dorothy 
had not been with her ten minutes before she felt that she 
could read her through and through. 

“What a dreadfully English room,” was Inez’s first re- 
mark as the cousins stood in the beautiful room, and 
Dorothy drew her towards the open window. 

“Don’t you like our view? I mean, don’t you think the 
garden beautiful ? ” began Dorothy. 

“Oh, it’s all right,” began Inez, with a disdainful shrug 
of her shoulders; then she turned and faced Dorothy. 

“I don’t want to talk commonplaces,” she said. “Don’t 
let us begin the usual sort of thing — I mean weather talk, 
;and what books do you like, and what are your favourite 
■occupations, and do you care for dancing, and do you care 
for music. Let’s begin to talk real — do you mind ? ” 

“No, I’d like it,” said Dorothy, her eyes sparkling, and 
her face lighting up with interest. 

“I want to ask you a question so badly,” said Inez, fixing 
her eyes, which suddenly began to blaze, full on her cousin’s 
face. “You hate me, don’t you? Tell me the truth.” 

Dorothy started back; her face turned white. 

“Yes, you do,” continued Inez. “You can’t hide it, 
Lowever much you try. You hate me hard — yes, hard. 
Tanta Marcia said that if she were in your shoes she would 
give me poison. Yes, she said that. But you won’t, will 
you ? ” 

“Oh, Inez!” gasped poor Dorothy, “how can you think 
such perfectly dreadful thoughts ? As though Father’s and 
Mother’s children could have such terrible feelings to any- 
one. But I forgot ; you are scarcely an English girl, although 
you had an English father. No English girl would think 
what you do.” 

“I wouldn’t be an English girl for the world,” said Inez. 

[ io i 


HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED 


“You are so slow, and so — so cold. And yet,” she added, 
“ what am I saying ? For when I think of Father — oh, I’d 
do anything on earth to please Father, and he, unluckily, 
was English.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Dorothy. “But will you come 
downstairs now? Tea is ready.” 

“I will in a minute. You haven’t answered my question. 
You really and truly don’t hate me?” 

“Of course we don’t. We are all wanting to like you, to 
love you,” said Dorothy. 

“And yet I am turning you out.” 

“You can’t help that.” 

“And Tanta Marcia says that you will be poor — oh, 
terribly poor; so poor that you will be almost beggars.” 

“You can’t help that either.” 

“If I were in your shoes I’d hate you,” said Inez with 
emphasis. 

“Let us go downstairs now,” said Dorothy. “You will 
want your tea, and afterwards you would like to see the 
house. It’s your own, you know; at least, it will be almost 
immediately.” 

“I’d like my tea, particularly if you have plenty of jam 
and fruit, but I don’t want to be bothered seeing the stupid 
old house, and the ugly place,” said Inez. 

“You won’t think Dering Towers ugly long; you will learn 
to love it. It would be terrible for you to live here if you 
didn’t love it. But come downstairs, anyway, for you must 
be tired and thirsty.” 

Inez followed her cousin without another word. They 
went into the room which was called the summer parlour. 
It was lined throughout with cedar, which gave it a faint, 
lovely smell, and the windows were French windows, and 
opened wide on to the rose garden. The roses were in per- 
fection everywhere just now, and the sweetness of their 
lovely smell was wafted in on the summer breeze. The 
centre table was laid with a snowy cloth, and there were 

[”] 


© 


A MADCAP 


plates and cups and saucers of delicate china, and beautiful 
old-fashioned silver spoons, and heaps of roses in great 
bowls all down the centre of the table; and there was jam 
of every sort, and piles of fruit, peaches, and pears, and figs, 
as well as gooseberries and a dish of very late strawberries. 

Inez’s eyes brightened when she saw the tea-table. She 
sank into the first chair which she reached, and gazed round 
her complacently. The other children had also taken their 
places, and Dorothy took the head of the table, for Mother 
was not present at the schoolroom tea. Inez now gave a 
long penetrating glance at each child in turn. In particular 
she fixed her attention on Suzette, who was an exceedingly 
handsome child, quite the beauty of the family. Suzette’s 
fair skin and golden hair gave Inez a sensation of surprise. 

“You would be bella, too beautiful for words, did you 
live in Spain,” she said. 

“Do you know Spain?” interrupted David, who did not 
want Suzette to be too much praised. 

“No,” she answered. “I have lived all my life in the 
West Indies — in Dominica, in particular. I believe I was 
born in Jamaica, but I went to Dominica when I was very 
young. Two months ago I came to England in order to 
get my lawyers to make enquiries about my property.” 

David winced, but Inez took no notice. 

“I never lived in Spain,” she continued, leaning back in 
her seat, and raising her lustrous dark eyes and fixing them 
on David’s face, “but my darling Mamma was a Spaniard, 
and she -told me much, much about that most beautiful 
land.” 

“You speak English very well indeed, Inez,” said Dorothy. 
“Who has taught you?” 

The beautiful eyes of the strange girl grew soft. 

“That was by my Papa’s wish,” she said. “He left all 
possible directions with dear Mamma when he lay dying. 
Whatever happened, I was to know English, the language 
of his country. Mamma has often told me, and then she 
[ 12 ] 


HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED 

held me to him in order that he might kiss me. He died 
almost immediately afterwards. I picture the scene — oh, 
many times.” 

The dark eyes grew full of tears, but suddenly there came 
a change. 

“ What are you all staring at ?” said Inez fiercely. “You 
are a pack of young barbarians, and I hate you. But not 
you,” she continued, stretching out her hand to Suzette. 
“You please me. You are so fair, like an angel. Come 
into the garden with me, and forget the others. You shall 
share my inheritance if you wish.” 

Poor little Suzette’s face turned scarlet. She looked ap- 
pealingly at Dorothy, who nodded to her to go. Inez snatched 
at her hand, and the two disappeared through the open French 
window. The rest of the children gazed at each other. 

“Well!” said Hal, “she is a queer girl! Think of her 
carrying off my Suzette in that fashion.” 

“If she hates me I hate her,” exclaimed Chris. 

“Oh, nonsense, children,” said Dorothy. “You are talk- 
ing in a very silly way. You don’t know anything at all 
about her at present. Of course, she isn’t English, but for 
some things I quite like her. I do, indeed I do. I don’t 
think I mind quite so much now giving up our beautiful 
home. Somehow it seems as though she ought to have it. 
Did you hear how she spoke of her* father — just as though 
she loved him very much. If our own darling Father were 
alive, he would be good to her, very good, I know he would. 
Just let us make the best of things,” continued Dorothy in 
her brave voice; and then she also rose from the table, and 
they all went into the garden. 

It was such a beautiful summer’s day. It seemed im- 
possible to believe that soon they would have to say good- 
bye to the things with which they had been familiar from 
their birth. Dorothy’s heart, notwithstanding her brave 
words, was sadly depressed, and she turned to David for 
comfort. 


A MADCAP 


“Oh, Dave,” she said, “I don’t know how I can quite 
bear it!” 

“Never mind, Doll, you are the bravest of the brave, and 
you can bear anything,” was his answer. “Let’s go and 
talk to Mother. Or, if you like, let us go and find Inez and 
Suzette. Somehow I don’t think Suzette ought to be left 
alone with Inez until we know something more about her.” 
. But although David and Dorothy searched everywhere 
they could not find either Suzette or their cousin. 

This was what had happened. As soon as they went out, 
Inez turned to Suzette. 

“Where shall we go?” asked Suzette timidly. 

“I don’t care twopence to see your lovely house and 
beautiful grounds,” said the Spanish girl, talking with great 
emphasis. “I have seen much, much more beautiful things 
in my home. Some day you shall come with me to Domin- 
ica, and then you will behold what real loveliness means. 
Now let us talk. Let us wander away somewhere. Have 
you a very lonely place where we can sit with our arms round 
each other, or w r alk up and down, and where you can tell 
me all your heart?” 

“There is a place we call the wilderness,” said Suzette 
timidly, “and no one ever goes there. But it isn’t at all 
pretty.” 

“As though I cared for that. Let’s race there.” 

Suzette pointed to a distant shrubbery. 

“We go right through there,” she said, “and at the other 
end is the wilderness; but it’s very ugly.” 

“Let’s race there. I’m dying to see which of us will get 
there first,” was Inez’s answer. 

Suzette laughed, and put wings to her feet. She was a 
very swift runner, but fleet as she was she was no match for 
Inez, who overtook her in a minute or two, and got first by 
several lengths to her goal. 

“Just wait a minute until I get my breath,” she said. 
“Now, then, that’s right. Let me put my arm round you. 

[ 14 ] 


HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED 


Oh, never mind whether the place is pretty or not. You 
are pretty, and you please me. I don’t care anything about 
the others, but you — I could make you into a sister, and 
share with you all I have. You would have a very good 
time, I can tell you. I would give you jewels for your neck 
and to wear in your pretty bright hair — turquoises and 
diamonds. They would suit you — oh, splendidly ! And 
I would give you lovely muslins, and silks, and embroideries. 
You shall see all my possessions when my trunks arrive. I 
inherited them from my dear Mamma. She was always 
buying them all her life. Would you like lovely things, 
Suzette?” 

“Yes,” answered Suzette, in a low voice, for Inez’s words 
and her ways dazzled her. 

“How pretty you look! Will you stay with me here in 
my English home? I want a sister so badly, and a fair 
sister would enchant my heart. Why, your hair is like spun 
gold — I never saw anything like it. There are five or six 
different shades in it, and it curls so sweetly. And then 
your neck is like snow, and you have such a darling little 
face. We will arrange it all just here by ourselves, won’t 
we, Suzette? For I am, after all, my own mistress; even 
Tanta Marcia cannot interfere with what I wish. You 
have only to say the word, and you shall never leave me 
again — never. We will just live and die together. Sit 
down by me now, on this bench, and kiss me and promise. 
Say: ‘Inez, I love you, and I will be to you a sister, and will 
give up everything else for your sake.’ Just you kiss me 
and say what I have said. I am waiting.” 

Inez turned her dark face towards Suzette, waiting for 
the kiss which she quite expected to receive. She thought 
herself very generous, for Tanta Marcia had taken good 
care to tell her how very poor the Derings would be now. 
They would be people of no consequence, Tanta Marcia 
had said. But Inez’s own adopted sister would not be poor; 
she would be like herself in everything. 

[iS] 


A MADCAP 


“I am ready,” she repeated. “Kiss me, and be quick 
about it, for we have lots to talk over.” 

Suzette, however, by no means looked at the matter from 
her cousin’s point of view. She did not at all want to be a 
sister to Inez. In the first place she did not know how it 
could be managed, as she was born a sister to a great many 
other delightful people. What about her beloved Dorothy ? 
And what about David ? and in particular, what about Hal, 
her twin, and the darling of her heart ? To give them all up, 
and to be made instead a sister to this dreadful, dark, queer 
girl, a girl with strange eyes and strange words! And yet, 
perhaps, if she really kissed her something might happen. 
If she said the awful words something would happen, for 
then she would have told a lie, and there was nothing in all 
the world so dreadful as that. 

“What’s keeping you?” said Inez. “How long am I to 
keep my cheek slanting, waiting for you to kiss me ? Come 
along and get it over, then we can begin our plans. I’m 
great at playing the ‘ I suppose ’ game. Do you know it — 
it is such fun ? ” 

“No, I don’t know it, but I’m sure it’s lovely,” stam- 
mered Suzette, her face first crimson, then pale. 

“Oh, isn’t it just! It’s about the very best game of all. 
You sit still, and you begin to dream. You say to yourself, 
‘I am not Inez Dering, or Suzette Dering,’ whichever the 
case may be, ‘ but I am a Princess on a lonely island, and I 
am waiting for the mermaids to come out of the sea. They 
have promised to dress me in all the beautiful seaweeds they 
can find, to cover my hair with jewels, and to take me away 
with them out on the sea-foam.’ Or I dream that I am a 
lady going to marry a great brave knight — or — what is 
the matter with you, Suzette? Aren’t you listening?” 

“I am and I’m not. I have never played that game. 
You see, Hal and I, we are twins, and we have so many dogs 
and rabbits and pigeons and little tame birds in cages, that 
we have no time. In fact, we wouldn’t like to be out on 
[16] 


HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED 


the sea-foam with the mermaids, nor in a castle with a great 
prince. And oh, Inez, I can’t kiss you like that, nor say 
those words, for there is Hal — my twin, you know — and 
all the others, and I could never give them up for anybody, 
for anybody, Inez.” 

“You mean,” said Inez, speaking slowly and a queer 
green shade coming into her face, and a steady light of in- 
tense surprise filling her eyes, “you mean that you refuse 
to be my sister, and to share my inheritance?” 

“Yes, Inez, I do refuse,” said Suzette, gathering courage, 
“for I can’t leave Hal and the others.” 

As Suzette spoke she backed away several paces; her 
little face was very white, for it really required courage to 
say the words which she had just uttered. She looked at 
the ground, for she did not care to watch Inez’s face just 
then, for Inez did not speak, she was absolutely silent. Then 
her hands fell to her side, and she came close up to Suzette. 

“Do you think that I — Inez Dering — want any girl 
who does not want me — badly — oh, so badly. Stay 
where you are. Don’t come near me — don’t look at me, 
don’t speak to me! I did love you, but now I hate you, and 
I’m going away by myself! Oh, I am a lonely girl! I am 
a lonely girl! But don’t you speak to me — don’t!” 

Inez turned away. Her shoulders began to heave, her 
face worked convulsively, and the next instant, to poor 
Suzette’s astonishment and distress, she was lying full length 
on the ground, her face completely covered by her masses 
of dark hair, while sobs rent her frame. 

“I want Mamma,” she sobbed. “Why did she die and 
leave me? I want her! I don’t want your horrid house 
and your hateful garden, and your English, English ways, 
nor any of you! I want Mamma! Oh, why did Mamma 
die and leave me?” 

To say that Suzette was terribly distressed is but mildly 
to express the state of her mind. She had never seen such 
violent and passionate grief before, and presently, very 

[17] 


A MADCAP 


timidly, she went up to her cousin, and kneeling on the 
ground, ventured to touch her on the shoulder. But Inez 
could not stand that. Quick as thought she turned round 
and gave Suzette a resounding slap, first on her hand and 
then on her cheek, and then, rising in a sudden fury, she 
dashed away, not much caring where she went. 

Suzette watched her out of sight: her hand tingled, and 
her cheek, where Inez had struck it, showed a scarlet patch. 
She turned very slowly back towards the house. Hal was 
disconsolately kicking his heels on the gravel just outside 
the schoolroom windows. 

“Hullo!” he said, when he saw Suzette, and he ran to 
meet her. “What’s she been doing to you? I don’t like 
her one bit, you know. Why, Suzette, what’s wrong?” 

“Oh, I’m just awfully wretched,” said Suzette. “Come 
with me, Hal, and let me tell you. I’m so frightened, and 
oh, so unhappy, and I don’t know in all the wide world what 
to do. What is to be done, Hal? What is to be done?” 

“Whatever she’s done — she’s not worth fretting about,” 
said Hal. “Let’s go and look at the rabbits. Do you 
know that Jasper has eaten right through his hutch, and has 
got into the lettuce bed, and destroyed a lot of young let- 
tuces that were all hearting so beautifully? Joseph is 
angry. He threatened to shoot Jasper if I ever let him out 
again. I don’t believe we’re going; do you believe it, 
Suzette ? ” 

“ I do, and I don’t. But oh, do think of Inez now. She’s 
so angry with me. She wanted me to be her sister.” 

“You can’t be that,” said Hal, with a contemptuous 
glance at his twin. 

“But she wanted me to do — I mean, to say words. 
She wanted me to say: ‘I love you, and will be a sister to 
you, and will give up everything for your sake.’ She did, 
really. And then she said I was to kiss her. And I got so 
frightened, thinking of you and the others, and ’specially, 
most ’specially of you, that I said I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t, 
[IS] 


HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED 


and that I never, never could be her sister, and I must always 
be yours. Oh, she tried to tempt me. She offered me 
beauty stones, and all sorts of things, and to live with her 
always. But she only frightened me, and then I refused. 
Of course I did.” 

“Of course you did,” said Hal. “Silly thing! She is a 
goose of a girl.” 

“You’d be sorry for her all the same, Hal, for there she 
was looking as white as a sheet, and as though she could not 
speak for a minute, and then she threw herself down on 
the ground, and began to sob and cry for her mamma who 
is dead, and she said she was miserable; and I was so sorry 
for her, and I knelt down by her and put my hand on her 
shoulder, and tried to comfort her, and she turned and 
slapped me on my hand here, and on my cheek here, and 
then she ran away. Oh, I don’t know where she is now, 
only I heard her sobbing as she went.” 

Now Hal was very matter-of-fact, much more matter-of- 
fact than Suzette. He was a plain boy in comparison with 
his handsome little sister, and he took life always in the 
most stolid manner, so he said now : 

“It’s not your fault — not a bit of it, and I wouldn’t fret 
any more. Here’s David coming; let’s tell him, and then 
you and I can go and patch the hutch so that Jasper doesn’t 
get into further trouble.” 

“Yes, let’s,” said Suzette; “let’s tell David, and then let’s 
forget.” 

“Hullo, Dave! You come here!” shouted Hal, putting 
on a lordly manner. 

David came up at once. He looked something like a big 
Newfoundland dog attacked by a small terrier, for he was 
very big for his age, and Hal was very small, and he was 
always good-natured and kind, and did not mind what 
liberties the little ones took with him. So Hal flew to him 
now and tried to swarm up his legs, and finally got a place 
for himself on Dave’s broad shoulder. Then he said: 

[ !<>] 


A MADCAP 


“That nuisance of a Spanish girl has frightened Suzette. 
She wanted Suzette to be her sister — such rot ! and Suzette 
said no, and she flew into a passion and sobbed and cried, 
and Suzette tried to comfort her — I wouldn’t, but Suzette’s 
such a softy! — and then she struck her there on her cheek 
and on her hand, and she’s gone away, we don’t know 
where. Only Suzette can’t be bothered, can you, Sue?” 

“No, but she sobbed so,” said Suzette, “and I — I did 
pity her, and I’m not angry with her for striking me. She 
sobbed so, Dave.” 

“I’ll go and look for her,” said David. 

“Then that’s all right. I thought you would,” replied 
Hal, climbing down from his perch on his brother’s shoulder. 
“Let’s go and see to Jasper, Sue.” 


[SO] 


CHAPTER III 


“ Dreadless is Mine ” 

David walked quickly through the woods which lay 
towards the back of the house. He had a kind of instinct 
which told him that his wild, new cousin would take shelter 
there. He had not gone far when he saw her standing with 
her back to him. Her rather clumsy black skirt hung in 
straight folds from her waist; her black hair was tumbling 
over her shoulders. She stood like a somewhat stout and 
ungainly statue, only now and then, as David approached, 
he could see her shoulders heave as though she were still 
sobbing. When he came within fifty yards of her, he stopped 
and called her name. 

“I say, Inez, what are you doing there?” 

She turned swiftly, saw him, uttered a little scream, and 
immediately put wings to her feet and ran as fast as ever 
she could through the woods and out into the meadows 
beyond. 

David was not going to pursue her. He knew a trick, 
as he said to himself, better than that. 

“When she finds that I don’t care whether she talks to 
me or not, perhaps she will come back,” was his thought, 
so he walked very slowly through the woods himself until 
he came to their outer edge, where he stood against a tree, 
calmly waiting, and whittling a stick with his pocket knife. 
The sunshine fell all over him, and Inez, from where she 
had paused to gather breath, could see him in spite of her- 
self. Inez had very fiery passions, but they were short- 
lived. She soon recovered a certain amount of self-control. 
She could not help watching David now, and as she watched, 
in spite of herself, she thought that he looked nice and kind 
[ 21 ] 


A MADCAP 


and — and interesting. She had all her life longed for re- 
lations of her very own. She had never had any, for her 
mother’s people did not live in Dominica. It had been 
very nice to play with girls of her own age, but it would be 
nicer still to play with a boy and to be able to say to her 
heart, “That boy is my cousin, or that boy is my brother.” 
She had longed for a sister with a beautiful face like her new 
cousin’s, with lovely hair all made up of different shades of 
gold, a face fair as a lily, and sweet blue eyes, and a gentle 
expression, but it would be better still to have a brother; 
and although David was by no means beautiful to look at, 
he seemed kind and strong. Why should she turn away 
from him? She stood quite still, however, about half-way 
across the field and raised her voice. 

“If you want to speak to me you can come up,” she said. 

“No,” replied David immediately; “you ought to come 
to me. I will wait for you here, and take your hand and 
lead you home.” 

“I’m not coming. If you wish for me you must come 
and take my hand here. I won’t stir from here,” said Inez. 

“All right,” answered David. 

He took up another stick and made a nice, tempting, in- 
teresting point at one end, and then he cut away the odd 
branches, and then he began to peel it from end to end. 
The work looked quite fascinating to Inez, who had never 
seen anything of the kind done before. There were quite 
a hundred yards between her and David, but she could see 
quite well what he was doing. 

“West Indian boys never do anything of that sort. They 
are stupid,.” thought the girl. “They lie about in the shade, 
and pant with the heat, and sometimes they get up and 
fight like little tigers.” Oh, they weren’t half so interesting 
as this English boy, who did not care whether she spoke to 
him or not. 

“And yet I am the heiress,” thought the little girl, “and 
he ought to be nice to me. He’s starving poor, and I’m 
[ 22 ] 


“ DREAD LESS IS MINE ” 


very, very rich. Why shouldn’t he come and speak to me ? 
Why should I go to him ? Dave ! ” she called. 

“Yes?” replied David. 

“I want you to show me what you are doing.” 

“You can come and look for yourself,” replied David. 

He partly turned his back to her now and devoted himself 
with greater energy than ever to the wand which he was 
making. 

“Will you give me that stick? It looks so pretty,” called 
Inez after a moment. 

“If you like to fetch it, Inez, you can have it,” was David’s 
answer. 

“No, you bring it to me.” 

No reply of any sort from David, who, having completely 
finished the stick, laid it on the ground at his feet, slouched 
his hat partly over his eyes in order to shut away the full rays 
of the western sun, and then folded his arms. Inez could 
not help it, she came a little nearer. Then she stopped. 

“You are horrid,” she called. 

“All right,” answered David. 

“Won’t you come to meet me half-way?” 

“Not a step.” 

“But why so?” 

“Inez, you are wanted at home — we all want you. 
Come along like a good girl. Don’t be silly!” 

“Oh, Dave!” said Inez with a little sob. 

His voice was kind, it really sounded quite comforting. 
He would be a delightful brother. It would be delightful 
to talk to him. Perhaps he would hold her hand when 
they were going back. She would like that. In another 
minute she stood panting by his side. 

“ You have conquered me,” said Inez, “ and I ought to 
hate you.” 

“We never talk of hatred in our family,” said David. 
“If you are going to belong to us, Inez, you must stop that 
sort of nonsense.” 


[23] 


A MADCAP 

“But we always talk about hating people in Dominica,” 
said Inez. 

“You are not in Dominica now. You are an English 
girl. This beautiful property will be yours, and you must 
become a nice, good, English woman. Don’t you be silly, 
Inez. Stop all that. Awful rot, I call it! Take my hand 
and come home.” 

“Give me that wand,” said Inez. 

“Pick it up for yourself,” said David. 

“You are rude. A Dominica boy would give it to me — 
he’d be proud!” 

“I’m an English boy,” said Dave. “If you want it, you 
can take it.” 

She did take it. She held it in her hand. 

“What is the matter with you?” said David. “Why are 
your eyes so red ? ” 

“It’s horrid and rude of you to speak about my eyes. I’ve 
been crying — it’s your sister has done it and — oh, I sup- 
pose I mustn’t say it.” 

“I know what you want to say, but you mustn’t, on no 
account whatever. So you have been crying. You are a 
little goose!” 

“David, you’d cry if you were me, if you were lonely like 
me. I wanted her to be my sister, and to live with me 
always. I’d have given her everything — jewels and lovely 
clothes. She’d have shared my inheritance — all this place 
that you are so proud of. She wouldn’t have been poor like 
the rest of you. But she wouldn’t. I wanted her to promise 
to give you up and to belong to me, and she spoke horrid 
words and said she wouldn’t, and couldn’t, and — oh, I will 
say it — I hate her!” 

“She’d have been the nastiest, meanest little cat in all 
the world if she had said anything but what she did say,” 
was David’s response. 

“Why, what do you mean by that?” 

“Just what I say, Inez, you little goose! Is it likely that 
[ 24 ] 


“DREADLESS IS MINE” 


Suzette would give up Hal, her twin brother, and Dorothy 
and me, and Christopher and Mother, and little Violet, for 
you? What had you to offer her? Just yourself!” 

“I had,” said Inez, looking with puzzled and ashamed 
dark eyes into David’s face, ‘‘money, you know, and — and 
beautiful things.” 

“Then I tell you what,” said David, drawing himself up 
very straight, “that none of us here are that sort. We think 
much more of love than of money, and much more of one 
another than what you are pleased to call your inheritance. 
Now come along home, Inez. We’re all going to be good 
to you if you’ll let us; but you needn’t think because you are 
going to have the house and place, that we’ll be mean and 
eat humble-pie to you, for we won’t, so there!” 

“I don’t know what humble-pie means,” said Inez, with 
a frightened, contrite face. 

“Then you will soon know if you talk any more humbug 
to us. But come along home now.” 

“David, you frighten me!” 

“I want you to be a good girl and not a foolish one,” said 
David more kindly. 

He held out his big brown hand and took Inez’s. 

“Let’s be quick,” he said. “Mother will be frightened 
about you, and you have got to make it up with Suzette, 
after frightening her. Come back as fast as you can.” 

Now David’s hand was very big and very warm and very 
comforting, and Inez felt more than ever that it was nice to 
have a brother about her own age, and quite a head taller 
than herself, with such a broad frame, and so nice, and so 
good, and she looked up at him admiringly once or twice. 

“I suppose,” she said, as they approached the end of the 
wood, “that you — you wouldn’t be my brother?” 

“Well, I’ll see what sort you are before I decide,” was 
David’s answer. 

“Oh, then, you are cruel!” 

“I don’t think so. I don’t adopt sisters all in a minute. 

[25] 


A MADCAP 


But if you turn out nice — well, I’ll see. Anyhow, Inez, 
I’m your cousin whether I like it or not, and you’re my 
cousin, whether you like it or not, and I suppose we have 
got to see a good bit of each other for the next few days, and 
if you wish me to tell you just what I think you ought to do 
— I mean about your duty, you know, and what you should 
do as mistress of a beautiful place like this — why, I’ll do 
it, Inez.” 

“I’d do anything for you, Dave! I am fond of you,” 
said Inez. 

“That’s all right! There’s Mother standing on the 
terrace. Go to her and talk nicely to her, and don’t let me 
hear again that you hate anybody. Now then, I’m off to 
find Suzette, to send her to you, too, and then there’s lots to 
be done.” 

David was rushing off, but Inez flew to him and laid her 
hand on his arm. 

“Come with me to your mother, and when I see Suzette 
I’ll kiss her, even if she has been horrid,” said the little 
Spanish girl; “and afterwards you can take me with you, to 
see all the things that you see and to do the things that you 
do, so that by and by I may know how to do them for my- 
self.” 

David nodded his head. His keen grey eyes grew soft. 
He looked full and earnestly at Inez, and a smile stole round 
the corners of his mouth. 

“Mother,” he said, a minute or two later, “Inez would 
like to talk to you. She’s just a wee bit lonely, Mother.” 

David always knew the right thing to say, and his mother 
always understood him. He stood silent for a minute while 
Mrs. Dering talked to the little girl. Mrs. Dering had that 
gentle, motherly way which so fully appealed to most girls. 
Inez soon found herself talking as she had not talked to 
Dorothy, or to Suzette, or to David, but as she had talked 
to her own mother. Suddenly she said: 

“I don’t feel so lonely while I am near you. Why should 

[ 26] 


“ DREAD LESS IS MINE ” 

I stay all alone in this big house ? Why shouldn’t you stay 
and help me?” 

Mrs. Dering did not reply for a minute. 

“You would really wish it?” she said then. 

“I don’t know — I’m not sure. Tanta Marcia said that 
you would have to go, and that you — oh, may I say just 
what I feel ? ” 

“Of course, my dear child.” 

“That you wouldn’t treat me fairly. David said I wasn’t 
to say anything about hating people, and I’ll try not to, but 
Tanta Marcia — oh, she didn’t want you to stay.” 

“And I can’t make you any answer at present, Inez,” 
replied her aunt. “Believe me, my dear child, I take an 
interest in you. I am not at all angry with you for being 
the cause of our leaving our beautiful place. My present 
feeling, however, is that we ought to go. But if you want 
me to help you, I shall be ready to do so.” 

“But why should you leave me here — a stranger, know- 
ing nothing of your ways ? Why, you all might stay, and I 
should have brothers and sisters. Oh, I should be happy 

— that is, if David would be my brother.” 

“You would be a very lucky little girl if you won the 
heart of David. There are very few like him.” 

“And Dorothy,” said Inez in a somewhat dubious voice 

— “she is nice, too, isn’t she?” 

“Very, very nice, but her heart is somewhat difficult to 
win. You must remember, Inez, that far greater than this 
lovely house and these beautiful grounds, and that rose 
garden which you can just see from here, and the fields 
beyond, and the woods and the money, my child, are the 
hearts of your new relations. Try to win them, and you will 
be really happy.” 

“You are very good,” said Inez, “and I wish you would 
stay. Won’t you — won’t you consider it?” 

“How long can you remain with us now, Inez?” 

“Oh, I hope for a long time. Tanta Marcia has scarlet 

[27] 


A MADCAP 


fever and there will be infection for ages. She is not ill — 
I mean there is no danger, but I don’t want to catch it.” 

“Of course not, dear. Well, suppose we all stop to- 
gether for a fortnight, and at the end of that time you can 
ask me whether you would like me to help you in your life 
or not. Of course, your Aunt Marcia is your real guardian.” 

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know what I wish just now, 
only I don’t feel that I could be parted from you and David.” 

“Here’s Suzette,” said Mrs. Dering, at that juncture. 
“Come along here, Suzette, and talk to your cousin.” 

“May I?” said Suzette, her face turning pale and then 
red. 

“Of course you may,” said Inez. “I’m sorry I was in 
such a temper. I often get into passions, but I try not to. 
You did right not to accept me as your sister and to give up 
the others. David explained it.” 

“Has Dave been talking to you?” said Suzette in some 
surprise. “And you weren’t angry?” 

“No, of course not. Who ’d be angry with him ? I want 
to go to him now. Where is he?” 

“Since Father went away Dave has gone round in the 
evenings and seen that the gardeners and other people have 
finished their work, and sometimes he gives directions for 
the next day. And then there are all the pets, the animals, 
we have to attend to them.” 

“The animals! What sort?” 

“Dogs, cats, guinea-pigs, rabbits, pigeons, cage birds, 
mice — ” 

“How horrid to keep those sort of creatures. We never 
did in Dominica.” 

“Well, we do in England. Would you like to see them ? ” 

“Yes, although I’m afraid of dogs.” 

“You needn’t be. Take my hand, I’ll protect you.” 

Inez took Suzette’s hand. Mrs. Dering watched the two 
children as they went across the lawn. Inez, foreign, 
strange in her movements, in some ways awkward, in some 

[’»] 


“DREAD LESS IS MINE ” 


ways remarkably graceful; Suzette, just a pretty, bright, 
everyday English child. Mrs. Dering put her hand to her 
forehead. 

“How strange to think that the little foreigner should 
own everything here,” was her thought. “But she is not 
all bad, she has much that is good in her, and it may be my 
duty to help her. But how can I stay here, not as mis- 
tress ? How can I stay here, feeling that she has the right to 
everything? I do not know, and yet it may be my duty.” 

Meanwhile, Suzette, still holding Inez’s hand, ran forward. 

“You hurt me, you walk too fast,” said Inez. 

Suzette paused. 

“But it can’t hurt you to walk fast,” she said, “for you 
nearly flew — I saw you when you ran through the wood 
when you were running away from Dave.” 

“Because I was full of passion just then. When I get 
full of passion I don’t mind what I do.” 

“That was how you were when I refused to give up my 
own people for you ? ” 

“Yes, that is exactly how I was.” 

“I was afraid of you then.” 

Inez laughed. 

“I’m always like that,” she said after a pause. “Trying 
to be good one minute, desperately naughty the next. Oh, 
don’t let’s talk about it. I want to see all the pets.” 

They had now come to the courtyard, where the dogs had 
a long run and yet were in a sort of confinement. Inez’s 
eyes sparkled with absolute pleasure when she saw the great 
bloodhound and the huge boarhound. She said she was 
afraid of dogs, and yet the look in their faces seemed to 
please her. She went close to the bars of their enclosure and 
looked in. 

“You mustn’t play with Dreadless, he doesn’t know you 
yet,” said Suzette. 

“I’m not afraid of him.” 

“You said just now you were afraid of dogs.” 

[29] 


A MADCAP 


“I’m only afraid of certain kinds. Some dogs I hate — 
that little black thing in the corner, I loathe him, but not 
this beauty. May he come out ? May I pat him ? ” 

Suzette, in great pleasure, opened the gate a tiny way, 
and Dreadless, with a bound, secured his freedom. He 
came up to Inez in the greatest confidence and allowed her 
to pat him and to kneel on the ground and put her arm 
round his neck. He then looked at her out of his small 
honest eyes with a glance of approval. She rubbed her 
cheek against his dusky coat, and rising presently, and still 
holding her hand on his neck, she turned to Suzette. 

“He’s a beautiful dog. I’m glad he’s here,” she said. 
“I shall make a great pet of him. When you’re all gone 
away I shall have him in the house. He shall sleep on the 
mat outside my door, won’t you, Dreadless? You’ll keep 
thieves and wicked people away from me. You will be my 
own darling, won’t you, Dreadless, my dear, my darling ? ” 

“But,” said Suzette, turning very pale, “he’s not yours, 
he’s ours. He goes away with us, Dreadless does.” 

“Nonsense!” answered Inez. “Everything in the place 
is mine, and so is Dreadless. I’ll ask your mother — I’ll 
ask Tanta Marcia. Of course he is mine, and so is the 
bloodhound. You can keep that nasty little black thing, 
and that pug, but I’m going to have Dreadless and the 
bloodhound.” 

“You can’t, you can’t,” said poor Suzette, her words com- 
ing out in gasps. 

She turned to Hal, who that minute came into view. 

“Hal, she says — she says — ” 

“What’s she up to now?” asked Hal. “I don’t like you, 
miss,” he continued, “and I’m not going to pretend that I 
do, so there!” 

“And I don’t like you,” said Inez, instantly forgetting 
her good resolutions. “I — I can’t bear you! You’re a 
horrid, little sneaky boy, and you want to steal, so there!” 

“I steal!” cried Hal. 


[ 3 °] 


“ DREADLESS IS MINE ” 

“Yes. This dog is mine! He’s as much mine as the 
place is, and as the money is. Everything here is mine!” 

“You’re telling a lie!” said Hal, striding up to her. 
“Don’t you dare say that again!” 

“I’ll go and ask Dave,” said Suzette. 

“Yes, David shall decide. We’ll stick to that,” said Inez. 

She knelt down on the grass once more and flung her 
arms round Dreadless’s neck. He turned and licked her 
little hand. 

“He loves me already,” she said. “You call him, and 
you’ll see he won’t come.” 

“Yes, we’ll see!” said Hal. “Come along, Dread, old 
boy. Come to your master.” 

But Dreadless, fascinated by the little Spanish girl’s 
caresses, did not move. He went a step nearer, and Inez 
held him more tightly in her embrace. 

“He’s mine! He’s mine!” she cried. “See, he says it 
himself. You darling, darling, you won’t leave me! They 
may try to drag you away, but they can’t.” 

“Here’s David,” said Suzette, panting. “I found him 
talking to the under-gardener. Dave, she says — she 
says — ” 

“She’s telling a great monstrous lie,” said Hal. “She 
says that Dreadless, our Dreadless, belongs to her.” 

“But he does, David, doesn’t he?” said Inez, not moving 
but still clinging to the dog. 

David looked at Suzette, and then at Hal. 

“I think the dog is ours,” he said slowly. “It was given 
to us by a friend of Father’s.” 

“Then I don’t care for anything else,” said Inez. “I 
don’t want you to be my brother; and as to the rest of you — 
oh, I hate you all! Yes,J hate you all! I want Dreadless, 
and I won’t let him go. Come, Dreadless, come.” 



[31] 


CHAPTER IV 


His New Quarters 

That night both Suzette and Hal went to bed with red 
eyes. They had felt very little grief on the morning of that 
eventful day, when they were told that they would have to 
leave Dering Towers and go away to a foreign place and be 
poor, unimportant sort of people. What did those sort of 
things matter ? They would still be together, and the dogs, 
Dreadless, Tocsin, and the others, would be with them. 
They were quite certain of that, so that they did not mind 
the advent of the Spanish cousin, nor the thought of giving 
up the place to her. They would be together, and they 
would have the dogs. 

Suzette, it is true, had lived through a fearful moment 
of agony when her Spanish relation had suggested to her 
that she was to stay behind. What was gold, and what 
were precious stones to a girl with Suzette’s true and loyal 
heart? She was wild with terror just for an instant, think- 
ing that she was in the power of a wicked enchantress. But 
then she had been brave. Her courage had come back, 
and she had given Inez most clearly to understand that she 
could never, for any bribe offered to her, part from her own 
people. And then things had come right, and Inez had 
understood, for darling Dave had explained. The sun had 
come out again, and Suzette was enjoying herself, when 
once more a cloud came up. 

And this was a terribly black cloud, for Inez had declared 
that she would not part from Dreadless. After fierce words 
and hot wrangling and flushed cheeks, and even a fight 
between the Spanish girl and Hal, she had given up Tocsin, 
but Dreadless she clung to. She would fight for him to the 
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HIS NEW QUARTERS 

last. David had looked very grave, and although he had 
taken the parts of both his little brother and sister, he had 
told them in private that he was quite certain they must make 
up their minds to part with both the big dogs, as their 
mother could not possibly take such large animals away to a 
foreign country and a small house. 

“We have to do a brave thing, and we must do it bravely,” 
was David’s remark; “so you may as well yield to Inez first 
as last, for she is quite certain to keep Dreadless.” 

Now Dreadless was their darling. The others were idols 
too, but Dreadless reigned as king. He was very affection- 
ate, and he was devoted to his little master and mistress, 
and Father had given him to the children before he went 
away on that last sad journey from which he was never to 
return. They felt that as far as they were concerned the 
sun would go out for ever when they lost Dreadless. 

So they sobbed themselves to sleep, and in the morning 
early, when Suzette woke, her first thought was a sort of 
wonder why she felt so sad, and why there was a weight on 
her heart. And then she began to consider matters, until 
she discovered what the weight was. They were going 
away. A stranger — one she had never even heard of at 
that hour on the previous day — would take the house and 
the place and the money. But that did not matter, only 
that same stranger would have possession of Dreadless. 

She heaved a great and terrible sigh, and turned on her 
pillow. Then she sat up in bed. 

Suzette, although she was a big girl, still slept in the nur- 
sery. She looked towards Christopher’s cot quite a good 
way off. Christopher had slightly red hair, with just a 
gold tint in it; and it was considered by most people to be 
very pretty. He had a fair little face with a lot of freckles, 
and long lashes the colour of his hair. He was lying on his 
back now, very sound asleep, and Violet was lying on her 
back with her tiny hand doubled up and pressed against 
her fat cheek ; and both children were sleeping, oh, so sweetly. 

[ 33 ]* 


A MADCAP 


Suzette, however, felt that she could sleep no longer* 
Hal had a small room to himself leading out of the nursery. 
She must go and consult her little brother. The near pres- 
ence of her twin was the only thing that could comfort 
Suzette in this moment of bitter pain. She slipped softly 
out of bed, put on her little felt slippers, and ran just as she 
was in her frilled nightdress across the floor into her brother’s 
room. 

Hal was sound asleep. He had tossed off the bedclothes, 
and his little thin brown face looked thinner and browner 
than ever in his boyish sleep. 

“Wake up, Hal, I’m here,” said Suzette. 

The voice of his twin had always an extraordinary power 
over Hal. He opened his eyes at once, rubbed them, and 
sat up. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“I want us to come out, I want us to talk to Dreadless. 
I want to be out in the air with you, and to talk to Dread- 
less and about Dreadless. We can’t — we can’t let her 
have him.” 

“To be sure not; he’s ours,” said Hal. 

“Get up, Hal, and let’s go out.” 

“All right,” replied Hal. “But you can’t go out in your 
nightie, you know.” 

“All right. I’ll go back to the nursery and dress. Martha’s 
up already, and she’s out of the room. Nobody’ll see us or 
hear us.” 

“Then be quick,” said Hal. 

Suzette trotted back. She managed to put on her clothes, 
very untidily, and only after a fashion ; but still she thought 
herself in quite suitable apparel to go into the open air. 
Hal also dressed himself badly, and hand in hand the two 
children ran downstairs. They ran along the corridor, and 
came to a door, the key of which Hal found he had strength 
enough to turn. 

They were out in the garden, and it was only six o’clock on 
[ 34 ] 


HIS NEW QUARTERS 

a midsummer’s morning, the dew was sparkling, the sun 
was shining, the birds were singing, and the roses were 
blooming, and, oh, it was impossible, quite impossible for 
any children under such circumstances to be sad. 

“It’s scrumptious!” said Suzette. 

“I say, isn’t it a lark ? ” cried Hal. “ Give me your hand. 
Let’s skip up and down.” 

“I wish we could get up at this hour every day,” said 
Suzette. 

“Let’s,” said Hal. ' 

“Yes, let’s,” said Suzette again. “It would be lovely. 
Let’s do it without the others knowing.” 

“There’d be no fun if they knew. Let’s do it every day, 
Sue.” 

“Yes, let’s,” said Suzette again. 

They ran down the garden, sniffing at the freshly opened 
flowers, and listening to the carol of the birds. Suzette’s 
bright golden curls floated back on the morning breeze, and 
her blue eyes sparkled, and she did not know that a girl, a 
little older than herself, a girl with a dark face, curious 
eyes, and a strange expression, was watching her from be- 
hind a white window curtain. This girl said to herself: 

“It must be nice to be out so early. I thought English 
people always lay in bed until noon; I’ll dress and I’ll follow 
them.” 

Meanwhile the children went slowly in the direction of 
the dogs’ kennels. The dogs were in their kennels now; 
they were not allowed to enter their run until the family were 
up. 

“She mustn’t have Dreadless,” said Suzette, as they went 
down the path. 

“I’d like to see her try it on,” said Hal. He could be 
very severe and manly when he was roused. 

“But what’s to be done?” said Suzette. “Oh, couldn’t 
we take Dreadless away, right far away, so that she couldn’t 
find him?” 


[35] 


A MADCAP 


“I wonder if we could,” said Hal. “Do you think we 
could ? ” 

“We might hide him in the cave, the cave that we found 
at the other side of the beech wood.” 

“He’d bark. She’d discover him by his bark, and he’d 
be so lonely,” said Hal. 

“We could come and sleep with him every night. Oh, 
Hal, wouldn’t it be scrumptious? Mightn’t we try?” 

“No, it can’t be done,” said Hal. “But there’s Farmer 
Scott. He’s two miles away. He’d keep him for us. We’d 
pay him for his keep; we’d have to do that.” 

“How much would he charge for his keep?” asked 
Suzette. 

“We might ask him. We might take Dreadless right 
away now, and give him to F armer Scott to keep for us and — ” 

“Oh, let’s, let’s! She will be sold! I’d like to see her 
face when she finds he’s gone. I know she’s thinking of 
him all the time. I saw it in her horrid eyes while she was 
eating her supper last night.” 

Suzette spoke with great excitement. Hal looked at her. 

“She’s an odious sort of girl,” he said; “but her eyes 
aren’t horrid. They make me creep. Somehow I like 
them and I don’t like them.” 

“You oughtn’t to like any eyes but mine,” said his twin 
in a very jealous voice. 

“Oh, never mind. I suppose some day I’ll marry a girl, 
and I’ll like her eyes. But don’t let’s talk any more non- 
sense. Come and let’s take Dreadless.” 

They entered the path which led to the kennels, went up 
to Dreadless’s box, unfastened him, and took him out with 
them. He was delighted to see them. He had forgotten 
Inez, and his affection had returned to his real little master 
and mistress with all its old vehemence. He gambolled 
round them, he leapt on them, he curvetted, he appeared to 
smile. He turned his great body to right and to left, then 
he bounded forward and disappeared into the wood. 

[36] 


HIS NEW QUARTERS 

“The darling! He knows where we are going to take 
him,” said Suzette. “Oh, let’s be quick, Hal! Let’s be 
quick!” 

Toscin and the other dogs wailed in unceasing agitation 
when the children left them behind, but Suzette and Hal 
did not mind that. They walked fast, and in less than an 
hour’s time found themselves outside Farmer Scott’s farm. 

Now the news had not yet got abroad in the country that 
the Derings, who were most popular and much beloved, 
were about to leave, and that a stranger was to be mistress 
at Dering Towers. Farmer Scott was out in the great yard, 
where the turkeys gobbled, the geese cackled, the ducks 
quacked, and the hens cackled unceasingly. The farmer 
was seeing to the breakfast of a pretty red calf with a white 
star on his forehead when he saw the children approaching. 
He left the calf and went up to them. 

“Mornin’, little master and miss. You are early abroad. 
Oh, and Dreadless! What can I do for you, sir? Don't 
you come along into the yard to worrit my chickens and 
young ducklings, and my calf Clover.” 

“Farmer Scott,” said Suzette, looking up into his face 
with those earnest blue eyes w'hich generally melted the 
hearts of those who saw her, “we want you to do us a tre- 
mendous kindness. Will you, Farmer Scott?” 

“Well, now, how pretty the little maid speaks! And 
what is the kindness, my hearty?” 

“There’s a dreadful Spanish girl living at our place.” 

“Oh, lor! One of the Inquisition sort?” said Farmer 
Scott. 

“Yes, yes,” said Hal, nodding. 

He thought it well to impress the farmer with the terrible 
fury and wickedness of their new cousin. 

“She’s staying with us, and she’ll have to stay with us 
for a long time — perhaps altogether,” said Suzette. “I 
can’t explain, but Mother will, if you ask her. And she 
wants Dreadless for her very, very own, and we don’t 

[37] 


A MADCAP 

want her to have him, and we’re determined she shan’t 
have him.” 

“Of course she shan’t,” said Hal. 

“And we want you, Farmer Scott, to keep him for us. 
And how much will you charge for his keep, Farmer Scott, 
for I hasn’t much money?” said Suzette. 

The farmer scratched his head. 

“A Spaniard! One of them scheming folks that did 
such harm to England long ago come to live in your home, 
children ? ” he said. “And you want me to keep Dreadless ?” 

“Will you? Will you?” 

“What’ll your mother say?” 

“You mustn’t tell her. You mustn’t pretend you know 
anything about him.” 

“No, indeed, you mustn’t pretend to know,” said Hal. 

“ Oh, Dreadless, you will go with him,” continued Suzette, 
kneeling down and clasping her arms round his neck. 

“Well, I’m blowed,” said the farmer. “This is the 
queerest thing I’ve heard of. I’ll go in and consult my 
missis. And as to charging — why, not a penny, not a 
penny — and for a few weeks I don’t see any harm. Here, 
missis, you come along to the front. These two young 
uns, bless ’em, want us to hide their big dog. There’s a 
Spaniard, an Inquisition body, a-coming after him, poor 
beast! Shall us, wife ? Shall us?” 

“To be sure! There’s the kennel that Bob had before 
he died,” said Mrs. Scott immediately. “And if your 
mother don’t mind, children — ” 

“You mustn’t tell Mother. Oh, we’re so much obliged 
to you,” said Suzette. 

A minute or two later Dreadless was put into his new 
quarters, and furnished with a very large mutton bone to 
satisfy him for the time being, and the children went home 
together, determined to keep the secret of his present quar- 
ters to the grim death. 


[38] 


CHAPTER V 


A Mean Revenge 

If Suzette and Hal were not very quick in their dressing, 
Inez, the young Spanish girl, was still slower. Strings 
fastened themselves into knots; hooks and eyes were en- 
tangled each with the other; buttons came off; a dress made 
to fasten behind was not at all comfortable fastened in front 
— in short, by the time she had got into her untidy and un- 
becoming toilet Suzette and Hal had left the grounds, ac- 
companied by Dreadless. There were only Tocsin and the 
two small dogs to greet her. Of course, she admired the 
bloodhound, but it was the boarhound round whom her 
young affections had twined themselves. She was very 
angry indeed at not seeing him there, and paced up and 
down chafing and fuming all by herself. 

In these moods Inez could be a very rude and disagree- 
able girl indeed. Presently the head gardener came along. 
He came placidly on his way. He had lived for years with 
the Derings, and was an excellent and faithful servant. 
Inez called to him imperiously. 

“Do you know where the boarhound has gone — the 
great big dog they call Dreadless ?” she asked. 

“No, I know nothing about him,” was Fisher’s answer. 

“Who has charge of the dogs?” 

“Dickins. He ain’t come yet. It’s too early,” replied 
Fisher. 

Not being at all interested in the badly dressed, very 
plain little girl, whom he regarded as a total stranger, he 
proceeded on his wayo Inez’s eyes flashed fire. 

“I wonder who that is?” she thought. She called after 
him. 


[39] 


A MADCAP 

“What are you doing in this place? Who are you?” 
she asked. 

“What am I doing?” repeated the man. “You ask 
missis. I’m the gardener.” 

“If you are the gardener, I am your missis,” replied Inez. 

Whereupon Fisher gave her a puzzled and not too respect- 
ful glance, laughed unbelievingly, and continued on his way. 

“Oh,” thought Inez, stamping her foot. “I should like 
to punish him. How dare these horrid servants behave to 
me in this fashion! I’ll soon show him his true place. I 
wonder what I’ll do — something that he doesn’t like.” 

She was so excited by Fisher’s manners that for the time 
she forgot her beloved Dreadless and the naughty children. 

“They have taken him for a walk, and they’ll be back 
presently. I’ve got to prove who I am,” thought the child. 

She followed Fisher at a distance, not being at all sure, 
just at present, by what means she could best annoy him. 
He walked straight through the beautifully kept verdure 
garden, right over the lawn, smooth as velvet and green as 
emerald, and entered a very large and lovely conservatory 
at the further end. Here were several most choice and 
wonderful flowers, amongst them a quantity of orchids of 
a very rare description and of great value. Inez pressed 
her face against the glass and saw the orchids. To her 
they meant nothing at all ; they were weeds, probably. Did 
not the West Indies teem with flowers of this description? 
Inez stamped her foot with impatience as she saw Fisher 
bend down over the queer blossoms, raise the head of one 
tenderly, look into its face, and then put a notched stick 
into the pot. 

By and by the door at the further end was opened, and a 
young gardener came in. 

“Jacobs,” said Fisher, “I think we’ll win the first prize 
for them orchids this year. I’ll send this one, and this, and 
this, to the show. You’d best have a covered cart handy, 
and take them off to-night. I’d like well for our missis to 
[ 40 ] 


A MEAN REVENGE 


have won the first prize for her orchids — yes, that I would. 
Ah, and wasn’t poor master proud of ’em.” 

“That he was,” said Jacobs, with a sigh. 

The two men stood by the three or four pots which were 
elected to be sent to the show, did a few things that were 
necessary for the welfare of the precious plants, and, know- 
ing nothing of Inez’s vicinity, left the large greenhouse. 

Inez waited until they were quite gone, then, with danc- 
ing steps and eyes brimful of mingled fun and anger, she 
stole into the greenhouse herself. It was very hot there, 
and the air was damp, but she cared nothing about that, 
being accustomed to great heat in Dominica. By and by she 
stood where the orchids, four in a row, were waiting to re- 
ceive their great prize at the flower show to-morrow. She 
looked at them eagerly; then, taking up a pair of scissors 
lying near, she deliberately cut off every blossom from each 
of the plants; even the buds she removed, and taking the 
flowers carelessly in her hand, she crushed them together 
and threw them on to the waste-heap at the further end of 
the greenhouse. 

“I’ll teach him to know who is his true mistress,” she 
thought, and she returned once more to the outer air. 

Poor Fisher little knew the trouble that awaited him 
when he should return. Inez, pleased with her mean re- 
venge, got into sudden high spirits, and danced about in the 
garden until she heard the breakfast bell ring. She then 
went in, just as she was, very untidy and dishevelled look- 
ing. 

Mrs. Dering invariably breakfasted with her children, 
and no one could look sweeter, more calm, or more dignified 
than did the widow that morning as she sat down at the 
head of her table. When Inez looked at her, and when 
Mrs. Dering looked back at Inez, it seemed to the little girl, 
just for a minute, as though something very queer and un- 
pleasant pricked at her heart. She had never had that sort 
of feeling before — never except once, when she had kept 

[41] 


A MADCAP 


away from her dying mother for a whole hour, to give her- 
self pleasure, and when her mother had looked reproach- 
fully at her, but said no word of anger. Inez knew then 
that she had done wrong, but she could not understand why 
she felt uncomfortable now. Mrs. Dering called her to her 
side. 

1 1 My dear child, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ how long have you been up ? ” 

“Some time,” said Inez. “I am accustomed to getting 
up early.” 

“So I perceive, and it is an excellent habit. But who 
dressed -you, dear?” 

“I dressed myself.” 

“You ought to have sent for Ann, our maid. She would 
have helped you.” 

“I didn’t want to,” she said. “I wanted to follow 
Suzette and Hal. They are not at all good children. They 
were up to mischief, and I thought I’d see what they were 
doing.” 

Just then Dorothy, in her neat print dress with black 
ribbons, entered the room. 

“Dolly, will you take Inez to her room and help her to 
get tidy for breakfast, or you can send Ann to her if you pre- 
fer it.” 

“No, thank you, Aunt Millicent; I’d rather breakfast as I 
am. I am not your child, you know, and, in fact, I don’t 
want to be tidied before I eat. I am very hungry.” 

Mrs. Dering coloured faintly. She looked for a minute 
at Inez; then she took her hand. 

“I will take you upstairs and make you tidy,” she said. 
“At present this house is mine, and while you are my guest 
you must look as I like my guests to look at my breakfast 
table. Come, Inez.” 

Whether Inez would have fought and struggled had Mrs. 
Dering been alone, can never be told; but David, who was 
carving the bacon at one end of the table, glanced at her, and 
she went away at once without a word. 

[42] 


A MEAN REVENGE 


“The only person of all your children whom I like the 
least bit in the world is Dave,” she said to Mrs. Dering. 
“And I don’t understand not being mistress — of course I 
am mistress.” 

“You will be, dear, certainly, but for the next few days, as 
long as I am here, I hold that position.” 

Inez shrugged her shoulders. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. 

As soon as she was tidy (Mrs. Dering had gently waited 
with her until her toilet was complete) the little girl came 
downstairs. She looked cross now, and thoroughly dis- 
contented, and the sight of Hal and Suzette, perfectly neat 
and tidy, calmly eating their breakfast side by side at the 
further end of the table, annoyed her a good deal. She 
looked at them, and they looked at her; and it seemed to 
her that they wanted to conceal something. She thought 
over this a minute, and then she said, raising her voice and 
addressing her aunt: 

“Aunt Millicent, of course the house and the garden are 
mine, and the servants will be mine almost immediately.” 

“We will talk of that later on, Inez.” 

“Eat your breakfast, and don’t make yourself a little 
goose,” said Dave. 

But Inez was too much excited now even to mind David. 

“I must ask you one question,” she said to Mrs. Dering. 
“I don’t care about Tocsin much, although he is a good dog, 
nor those small dogs ; but I want the large boarhound Dread- 
less for my very, very own. I am willing to pay for him if 
it is necessary, but I want him for myself. I’d rather have 
him than the place or the grounds. I want him always to 
lie outside my door at night, and to lie by my side when I 
am having my meals. I thought I’d like a child companion 
— that is, when I first arrived, but a dog, a big dog like 
Dreadless, would be better.” 

“We can talk of this presently,” said Mrs. Dering. 

“And you can’t have him, can she, Mother?” asked Hal, 

[43] 


A MADCAP 

roused to passion by her words. “He’s our dog, isn’t he, 
Mother?” 

“I’ll see about it later on,” said Mrs. Dering quietly. 

“Oh, I love him!” continued Inez. “I went to the ken- 
nels quite early this morning to look for him. But, do you 
know, he wasn’t there.” 

“Dreadless not there?” asked Mrs. Dering. 

“No, he wasn’t there. The other dogs were. An im- 
pertinent old man, calling himself a gardener, came along 
and could tell me nothing. I asked him what he was doing 
about the place, and he said he was the gardener.” 

“You don’t surely mean Fisher?” said Mrs. Dering. 
“Why, we are all so fond of Fisher, and so proud of him. 
He’s such a faithful old servant, and we consider him highly 
privileged. There never was such a gardener.” 

“And a very cheeky one, I call him,” said Inez. “And 
I’ve punished him. Yes, I have.” 

She laughed aloud, and then bent again over her break- 
fast. 

‘ ‘ I wish T anta.were here, ’’she said, after a pause. ‘ ‘ Tanta 
gives me my own way in everything. It is horrid not to 
have your own way when you are accustomed to it. You 
are all so queer, so different from darling Tanta. I hope 
she’ll soon get over the scarlet fever, and come and live here. 
She’d let Dreadless come into the room. She’d do any- 
thing I want.” 

“I wonder where Dreadless can be,” said Dorothy. 
“Suzette, do you know?” 

Now Suzette was naughty, but she could not tell a lie. 
Oh, no, not even to save Dreadless. So she nodded, and 
became first scarlet and then pale. 

“And do you know, Hal?” asked his mother. 

“The dog’s all right,” said Hal. 

He seemed to choke down something in his throat. 

“He’s all right, really, Mother,” said Suzette. 

“Aunt Millicent, are you going to allow this?” cried 

[ 44 ] 


A MEAN REVENGE 


Inez. “The dog is my dog, or he will be, and you allow 
these children — ” 

But Mrs. Dering said “Hush!” in such a tone that even 
Inez could not resist it. 

“Come out, Inez,” said Dave. “Come, I’ll take you to 
the conservatory. Fisher will be there. He said he wanted 
me to see the flowers after breakfast that are to go to the 
flower-show to-morrow. He expects to get several first 
prizes. I hope he will. We are so fond of him.” 

Inez considered for a moment. 

“Fisher to get first prizes!” she said to herself. “Oh, 
what fun! What fun! Little they know.” 

She sprang to her feet and accompanied Dave outside. 
They soon reached the conservatory, outside which Fisher 
and the other gardener were waiting for them. Fisher 
looked with a certain air of disdain at Inez. He wondered 
how his beloved young master could have come across such 
a queer, disagreeable young lady. He did not like her at 
all. Inez returned his stare with interest. 

“Master Dave,” said Fisher, “we’ll have a rare show, I 
can tell you, sir. I never thought them orchids would come 
up so fine. Why, they’re splendid. We never had such 
blossoms. There’ll be four of ’em, sir, and ‘First Prize ’ 
writ on every one, or I’m finely mistook. And there are a 
few roses I’ll send as well, but it’s the orchids by which I 
hold.” 

“Come, Inez,” said David. 

He gave her his hand, and they went to the conservatory. 
Fisher walked first, and the two children came next, Jacobs, 
the under-gardener, following in the rear. Now, David 
was very nearly as much interested in the flowers as was the 
gardener himself. The fact was, he loved every inch of the 
place, every flower that grew there, every shrub, almost 
every weed. Still holding his cousin’s hand he went for- 
ward. Just for an instant he felt her hand tremble, and 
then tighten its clasp. He wondered vaguely what this 

[45] 


A MADCAP 


meant. The next instant they were standing by the shorn, 
dilapidated plants. Visions of beauty they had indeed been 
an hour before. Now they were wrecked and shorn of 
their loveliness, only a few drooping leaves to tell of the 
beauties of the past. As to poor Fisher, he was quite stunned 
for the moment. Dave uttered an exclamation of anger. 
It was Inez who spoke. 

“I did it ! ” she said, with a laugh. “ They are my flowers 
— that gardener is my gardener. He was rude to me, and 
I wanted to teach him a lesson. I cut the orchids off, and 
there they are,” she added, pointing to a little heap of 
withered leaves in a distant corner. “I crushed them up. 
They’re dead. Now, then, you gardener, you! — you’ll 
know what to expect from your new' mistress. You can 
tell him all about it, Dave.” 

But David had dropped her hand. He had moved away 
a pace. His face was deadly white, his grey eyes gleamed. 

“You can go, Inez,” he said gently. “You can go any- 
where you like — to any part of the house — to any part of 
the garden. I’ll have nothing to do with you — I am not 
going to speak to you any more. Fisher, come with me.” 


[ 46 ] 



“ ‘ I did it,’ she said with a laugh. ' They are my flowers.’ ” (p. 46) 


wSstp' 



CHAPTER VI 


Best of Dogs 

That evening Fisher told Mrs. Dering that nothing would 
induce him to stay with the new little mistress. Most of the 
other servants followed suit, and nothing Mrs. Dering could 
say would make them change their minds. 

As to Inez, after one puzzled glance at David, with a queer, 
strangled sensation of remorse in her heart, she held her 
small head high and walked through the grounds, looking 
here and there and pretending not to care the least bit. 

“Care? I?” she said to herself. “No! They needn’t 
think that I shall mind ! I’m the owner of Dering Towers ! 
I’m the owner of this land ! Not that I care about it. Oh, 
I’ll have all the boys and girls I know in Dominica to come 
and stay with me. And Tanta Marcia will soon make 
those servants know how they’re to treat me. I’ll have a 
right good time. I’m glad Suzette wouldn’t consent to be 
my sister, and I’m glad Dave isn’t going to be my brother. 
I — I wonder how soon they’ll go.” 

Mrs. Dering was poring over the same thought. But 
Mrs. Dering was a mother, and the lonely, passionate, self- 
willed girl appealed to her, notwithstanding her sins. As 
to poor Dorothy, she was so wild with grief at the thought 
of the fate of the dearly cherished orchids and at the know- 
ledge of poor Fisher’s distress, that she could scarcely be 
civil to Inez. 

“Mother, darling,” she said, “do let’s ge;t away. Can’t 
we go in a week? It’s intolerable to have this girl here.” 

“I promised her to stay for a little. We can’t go in a 
hurry,” said Mrs. Dering. “There are a great many things 

[47] 


A MADCAP 


to be seen to. And remember, oh, try to remember, Dolly 
dear, that she has not been trained like you. She comes of 
a wild and passionate race. Do we want the place that your 
dear father so loved to go to rack and ruin ? Wouldn’t you 
like to help me to guide her a little?” 

“She can’t be guided, Mother. I spoke to David about 
her; he is so patient and so kind. But he just shook his head. 
He tried to answer me, but he only shook his head, and said, 
‘It’s past speaking about. I can’t speak of it!’ I never 
saw David so upset. He did not cry, but he very nearly 
did.” 

“ She really is a very naughty child. I wish her aunt were 
not so ill. But there, I’ll have a talk with her this evening.” 

It was quite late, and the summer’s day was coming tqan. 
end, and twilight was over the scene, when Mrs. Dering, 
walking down a side path, came face to face with Inez. 
Inez had been away by herself during the greater part of the 
day. She was now coming home. 

“It will soon be supper time, Inez,” said her aunt gently, 
“but there’s half an hour yet to spare. Would you like to 
come for a walk with me ? ” 

“No,” said Inez abruptly. Then she added, “No, thank 
you, Aunt Millicent.” 

“But even if you don’t like to come for a walk with me, 
will you come all the same, for I want to talk to you.” 

Inez hesitated. 

“You didn’t want to talk to me all day,” she said. “Nor 
did Dorothy; nor did that stupid, goody-goody David of 
yours; nor did the others.” 

“Come, Inez, be reasonable. Did you want to talk to 
them ? ” 

“Only to Dave, but he said he wouldn’t speak to me. It 
isn’t that I like him — not -a bit of it, but I thought I’d like 
to make him break his word.” 

“You could never do that. David’s word is his law. He 
respects it — he loves to fulfil it.” 

[48] 


BEST OF DOGS 


“I wish you weren’t the sort you are. I wish you were a 
naughty lot of people. I wish, oh, I wish everything were 
different! ” said the spoilt child. “I wish Mother were here. 
Oh, why did my mammy die and leave me this horrid Eng- 
lish place? Why should I come from beautiful Dominica 
to this cold, dreary land? You think so much of your old 
flowers, your old greenhouse flowers; but you don’t know 
what real flowers are. You should see our orchids! They 
are wicked! They look as though they could eat you. 
They can give you wicked thoughts. But I love them, and 
I love the real wild things that grow in our jungles, not those 
stupid things that I cut away to-day. Oh, you don’t know! 
You think me bad, but I can’t help it, and I’d rather be bad 
like me than good like you, even good like Dave. Aunt 
Millicent, how soon are you going away ? I want you to go 
away very soon, that I may fill this horrid place with my 
own friends, and Tanta Marcia’s friends, and so that I may 
have my own way.” 

“Dear little Inez, I understand,” said her aunt. 

She spoke so softly, in such a low, sweet tone, that the 
little girl’s attention was arrested. She looked full at her 
aunt out of the gathering gloom of the twilight and those 
expressive and really wonderful eyes of hers softened, filled 
with tears, and then the black lashes were lowered,, and a 
quiver passed over the proud, fierce little face. 

“I understand,” said Mrs. Dering. “It is hard on you, 
and what we thought such a fearful sin cannot appear in 
exactly the same light to you. Give me your hand, little 
Inez. We will walk about together and talk.” 

Inez did not know why, after a minute, she gave her hand 
to Aunt Millicent, and why she walked very quietly up and 
down, and why she never spoke a word while Aunt Millicent 
very gently spoke to her. At the end of half an hour, Mrs. 
Dering said: 

“I will leave you now, and on my way to the house I will 
speak to David. He knows things that you- don’t know. 

[ 49 ] 


A MADCAP 

He has been trained to see things in a different light from 
you. It would be impossible for you not to love David if 
you really knew him well, and he might help you. I will 
also speak to Dorothy.” 

“No, I can’t stand Dorothy, but you may speak to Dave, 
for yesterday, at this time, I liked him.” 

Mrs. Dering slowly returned to the house. As she was 
entering one of the side doors she came face to face with 
David. His face was flushed, he looked hot and tired. 

“What have you been doing?” she said to him. 

“Packing, and arranging lots of things, and talking to 
Suzette and Hal. They really have been very naughty in- 
deed,” said the boy. 

“What have they done?” 

“Darling little mother, you mustn’t fret about them. I’ll 
manage them. You know they have hidden Dreadless, 
and they won’t tell me where he is.” 

“I wonder where the dog really is?” said Mrs. Dering. 
“There has been so much to attend to to-day that I confess 
I had forgotten him. But if I speak to Suzette, she will 
tell me. She would not dare to hide anything from me if I 
really asked her.” 

“That’s just it, Mother,” said Dave. “Perhaps you had 
better not ask her. You see,” he added, “we can scarcely 
expect the children to stand the imperious ways of Inez. 
They have never been treated by anyone as she is inclined 
to treat them. It may read her a lesson.” 

“David, darling,” said his mother — she laid her soft 
hand on his shoulder — “the only way to treat your little 
new cousin is to be gentle with her. She cannot be driven ; 
she must be led. I have been talking to her. She has 
admitted nothing; but her eyes have told me that she is 
softened and surprised, and even, to a certain extent, sorry.” 

“You mean about the orchids?” said Dave, flinging up 
his head. “That’s a sin not to be forgiven.” 

“And yet it must be, Dave. Were your father alive, he 

[5o] 


BEST OF DOGS 


would say so too. I want her herself to tell Fisher that she 
is sorry. I have been speaking to her about it. She won’t 
promise, but neither does she say she won’t do it. I think 
you could make her. You have influence over her more 
than any of us.” 

“But I don’t want to have influence over her. The fact 
is, I despise her,” said the boy moodily. 

He kicked away the gravel with his foot as he spoke. He 
had never looked more obstinate and uncompromising. 

“I know it is hard on you, Dave. You are young, and 
cannot understand how differently Inez must look at things 
from yourself. But I, who am so much older, see that her 
training must account for her ungovernable and naughty ~ 
actions. If we are cold and unkind to her now, we shall 
lose our influence over her for ever.” 

“But do you mind, Mother? The place belongs to her; 
let us go away. Let her take it. Let’s try to forget it. 
Thank God, I am young, and I can live my life even with- 
out Dering Towers,” said the boy. “Why should we worry 
about this new owner? That’s what I want to know.” 

“Think it over all by yourself, David, and never let me 
listen to such absolutely selfish words from you again,” 
said his mother, and as she spoke she went into the house. 

Meanwhile Inez, surprise still deep at her heart, was walk- 
ing slowly through the shrubbery. Mrs. Dering’s words 
were absolutely astonishing to her. She had not really re- 
pented of her deed of that morning, although there had 
come a moment when something other than mere joy at her 
own ill-timed revenge had smitten her — when she saw the 
pallor of Fisher’s face, and the look of real agony in his eyes 
as he bent over the destroyed plants. Then David’s cold, 
icy, deadly calm voice had come as a fresh surprise. No, 
she had to confess to herself — she had confessed it all day 
— that a deed of revenge like hers was not so interesting 
in England as it would have been in the West Indies. There 
she would have been excited by the applause of others, by a 

[51] 


A MADCAP 

pat on her cheek, by a look of delight in eyes as dark as her 
own. And one friend would have told another, t and they 
would have rejoiced with her while her enemy groaned. 
-Oh, yes, the West Indian life was worth living; the Spanish 
blood in her rejoiced in it. But in England people were 
very different. Still, she had not* been really sorry until 
Mrs. Dering began to speak to her. • But as she listened to 
Mrs. Dering’s words, and*- understood something of the 
spirit which animated her own young father, some of the 
old longing to be like him had come back. If he were Eng- 
lish, she must not altogether hate, the English. She must 
try to be good — she must try to bear with her new relations. 
And yet, could she? For Mrs. Dering had been very un- 
compromising. Mrs. Dering had said: 

“Inez, we must not part from each other in this spirit. 
Before I go I must/ show you what is right, what is right 
from the view of an Englishwoman and a Christian. You 
did wrong, very wrong indeed. You did a most mean and 
wicked and small thing when you destroyed those orchids, 
and your duty is to tell Fisher that you are sorry.” 

“I, tell your gardener, my gardener, that I am sorry?” 

“He is not your gardener, and never will be. We need 
not enter into that now. You ought to tell him that you 
are very ^sorry.” 

Mrs. Dering continued to speak gently, and finally Inez’s 
proud little heart was, in- spite of herself, captured. 

“She is nice, Aunt Millicent is,” thought the child. “And 
if she’d always been with me, I might have seen things as* 
she wants me to see them. 1 suppose Father was something 
like her. She said she’d take me to the picture gallery and 
show me Father’s face. I should like to see that, But she 
said she wouldn’t until I had made it up with Fisher, and 
until Dave and I were friends again. Perhaps Dave would 
take me. But there, I suppose I’ve got to tell him, too, 
that I’m sorry. I don’t think I am, only I’d like to please 
Aunt Millicent.” At this moment in her meditations, Inez’s 
[ 52 ] 


BEST OF DOGS 


thoughts were turned forcibly in another direction by the 
baying and ‘barking of dogs. She rushed, as fast as ever 
she could, round to v the kennels. Suzette and Hal were 
both there, and were*talking eagerly to a tall man with 
whiskers and a round hat. The moment they saw Inez 
they ceased to speak. Suzette put up her finger with a mis- 
chievous gesture to her lips, and Inez distinctly heard Hal say: 

“That’s her! That’s the Inquisition girl. Mum’s the 
word, you understood, Farmer Scott.” 

“Oh, is mum the word?” thought Inez. “That man 
knows something about where my dog Dreadless is, and I’ll 
find out before I am many hours older.” 

Putting a violent check upon her impatience, she deter- 
mined to get her information by guile. Accordingly, she 
walked past the kennels without making any comment or 
noticing in the least either Suzette or Hal. She determined 
to watch Farmer Scott as he went home, and to follow him 
herself. What tremendous fun it would be if she discovered 
where the children had put Dreadless, and if she tried to 
take the dog again. 

“He loves me already, and I can make him love me more,” 
thought the child. 

Full of this new idea, she darted round to the back 
premises, and presently found herself standing at the open 
kitchen door. The cook, a stout, red-faced woman, was 
preparing supper, when she started and gave an exclamation 
at sight of Inez. 

“I want something good — some meat, some cold meat, 
all in a minute,” said Inez. “Here, this will do.” 

She strode into the kitchen, took up a small piece of 
mutton which lay upon a plate, snatched up a piece of paper 
which happened to be near, wrapped it round the meat, and 
stalked out of the kitchen before anyone could prevent her. 

“Lor! Who’s that?” said cook. 

“That’s the Spanish young lady, and they say she’s to be 
the missis,” remarked another servant. 

[53] 


A MADCAP 


“She’ll be no missis to me,” said cook. “Did you ever 
see anything like it ? The bold way she walked in and took 
off the meat as I was preparing for the kitchen supper!” 

“Well, we won’t fret, and we daren’t follow her,” said 
the other servant. “They say her temper’s that terrible. 
It was she who spoilt poor Fisher’s flowers.” 

“She won’t spoil anything of mine,” said cook. “For 
I wouldn’t stop, not if she was to give me a hundred pounds 
a year. Now, then, Mary Ann, look smart, and hurry up 
with the hot plates.” 

The servants returned to their duties, and Inez went back 
to wait for Scott in the shrubbery. As she was going, she 
saw David in the distance. This fact alone made her hurry 
her footsteps. He called after her now. 

“ Inez!” 

But Inez did not reply. Whatever might happen in the 
future, she would not speak to him at present. 

She got into the shrubbery and crouched down in the 
undergrowth. No one wanted her. Even David only 
forced himself to speak to her to please his mother. The 
others were all absorbed in themselves and their own occu- 
pations. 

By and by Farmer Scott proceeded on his way home, and 
then Inez slowly dogged his footsteps. She had almost an 
Indian girl’s power of following a trail, and she managed to 
walk so softly and quietly that he did not hear her or notice 
her. When he got on the high road, Inez crept behind the 
hedge and still kept him in view. 

The distance to his home from Dering Towers did not 
fatigue her. She was much too excited and too eager to 
feel tired. At last he went down a lane, and then entered 
the large gates of a big farmyard. Inez crept up to the 
gates and looked in. She saw the farmer go straight across 
the yard and stop at a kennel. Then she saw the large, soft, 
mousey-brown head of her beloved Dreadless, and his small, 
keen, affectionate eyes fixed on the farmer’s iace. 

[ 54 ] 


BEST OF DOGS 


“He’s mine, he’s mine! And I know how to get him now 
— how to win him, how to conquer him, how to have him 
always for my very, very own!” thought the excited child. 

Then she crept back again under the shelter of the hedge 
to bide her time. 

“Wife,” said Farmer Scott an hour later that same 
evening, “shall we let Towser out to-night, or keep him tied 
up?” 

Mrs. Scott had risen from the supper table, and was just 
preparing to take her dishes back into the larder. She 
stopped now and looked full at her husband. 

“And why not?” she asked. “Why shouldn’t the beast 
have his liberty the same as any other night ? He’s a faith- 
ful watchdog, and keeps the place free not only from thieves 
and other varmint of that sort, but also foxes and rats, for 
none of them beasts will come anigh Towser — he’d soon 
have his teeth into ’em.” 

“I was only thinking,” said the farmer, “that the big 
boarhound Dreadless ought to have a bit of liberty, and I’m 
not at all sure how he and Towser would agree.” 

“I don’t see,” answered Mrs. Scott, “why our dog should 
have his Jiberty curtailed because of a stranger.” 

The farmer scratched his head. 

“I’d do a deal for that sort of stranger,” he said, after a 
pause. “Wife, I heard sorrowful news to-day. My heart’s 
sore, that I can tell you.” 

“And what’s that?” she answered. 

“Why, no more and no less than this — the family at 
Dering Towers is going away.” 

“You don’t never mean to say that Mrs. Dering has let 
the place, and her so well off too, and the dear late Colonel, 
bless him, so proud of it ? ” 

“ ’Tain’t that. It’s much worse, to my way of thinking. 
Mrs. Dering ain’t letting Dering Towers, but she’s going 
away all the same; for the place ain’t hers, nor the grounds, 
nor the money, and it’ll never come to our dear^Caster Dave. 

[ 55 ] 


A MADCAP 


It goes to that Spanish girl whom Miss Suzette and Master 
Hal hate so. And she’s the missis, and has a right to every- 
thing. And the family we love is going away in a week or 
fortnight, and she’s to be queen there. Oh, she’s a bad ’un. 
You listen to what she did to poor Fisher this morning; the 
man told me himself; I have never seen anyone so changed; 
he said she did it, and that nothing nor nobody would make 
him stay with her as missis. He’s near heart-broken, poor 
man.” 

“When you tell me what she did, Sam, perhaps I can give 
you an opinion on the point,” said Mrs. Scott, with a smile. 

Then the farmer told the story of the orchids, and a little 
more about Inez, and whose daughter she really was, and 
all about that strange event which made her mistress of the 
Towers. Finally he added: 

“And I’d like to be kind to their dog, poor things, and to 
give him his chance. He’s been in all day, and he howled 
quite savage-like when I came in this evening. He’d best 
have his liberty, and Towser can stay in.” 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Scott. “I, too, would do any- 
thing to oblige the family ; so you can let him free in the yard, 
and be quick about it, for goodness’ sake, Sam, for I’m all 
agog to get off to rest.” 

It was in this fashion that Dreadless got his liberty. 
Meanwhile Towser, with a large bone to comfort him, was 
securely chained in his kennel. Dreadless rather enjoyed 
himself. He was naturally of a social disposition, very fond 
of his own people, and not inclined to be disagreeable to any- 
one. He would not have quarrelled with Towser, though 
he considered him very inferior to himself. Still, there was 
no use in quarrelling, so he thought. It was always best to 
be friendly, even with your inferiors. 

He was prowling about in this fashion — all the farm, 
with this one exception, already wrapped in slumber — 
when it seemed to him that there was a waft of something 
appetising and agreeable borne to his nostrils. It was not 
[ 56 ] 


BEST OF DOGS 


in his dog’s nature to resist a sniff, and that sniff brought 
the delicious smell still nearer, and presently, looking with 
his keen, faithful eyes in the direction of the appetising 
smell, he saw a small and somewhat ungainly figure, and a 
white hand gleaming in the darkness. He bounded in the 
direction of the figure, and was rewarded by a delicious and 
solid piece of excellent mutton. Dreadless was the sort of 
dog who never lost opportunities. He took the mutton 
between his front paws, lay flat down on the ground very 
close to the little figure, and proceeded to enjoy himself. He 
was not exactly hungry, for Mrs. Scott had been liberal in 
her allowance to him during the day, but the best roast 
mutton was not his customary diet. Accordingly, he en- 
joyed it mightily, and ate it up to the last scrap. Then, 
licking his chops, he went up to the owner of the little white 
hand and began to lick that hand also. 

Meanwhile Inez had been fumbling and fumbling with 
the fastening of the gate, and finally she discovered that she 
could push back one of the bars and open it a few inches. 
She did so, and, coaxing Dreadless to come out, she soon 
had him, as she expressed it, in her own possession. She 
quietly closed the gate, and, calling the dog, walked serenely 
home. 

It was eleven o’clock when she got back to Dering Towers, 
and already the search for her and the anxiety about her 
non-appearance had begun. One of the doors stood open, 
and Inez, absolutely unconcerned as to what other people, 
would think, or as to the consequences of her own deed, 
marched into the house and upstairs, followed by the big 
boarhound. Into her own bedroom she introduced the big 
dog, locked her door, and, tired as she was, flung herself 
without undressing on her clean, w r hite bed. Dreadless 
came up and licked her hand. She desired him to lie on 
the ground at her feet. He did so, blinking his eyes. Inez, 
lay on the edge of her bed and looked down at him. 

“Well, I have had an unhappy day l” she said to herself. 

[ 57 ] 


A MADCAP 


“Pretty miserable I’ve beenl But I’m happy enough now. 
If they think they’re going to have their way with me, they’re 
mistaken. I’ve got Dreadless, and I’ll never let him go 
again. Oh, yes, sleep soundly by my side, my darling. 
You shall sleep in my room every night; and I’m the real, 
real mistress, not only of Dering Towers, but of you, my 
best of dogs.” 


[58] 


CHAPTER VII 


The Angel Picture 

All night the searchers came to and fro, and it was not 
until six o’clock on that summer’s morning that David, 
whose face was deadly tired, and his eyes red from want of 
sleep, said to his mother: 

“Inez is such a queer girl, and everything is so odd and 
changed now that she has come, that I shouldn’t be the 
least surprised if she were in her bedroom. Run up, Dolly, 
won’t you, and look. She may have come in ages ago and 
said nothing about it.” 

Dorothy did what she was told, coming down after a few 
minutes with the information that the door was securely 
locked, and she fancied someone must be inside. 

Inez had just opened her eyes. She was accustomed to 
waking early, had stretched herself a little, wondering dimly 
why she was still in her day clothes, and then, seeing Dread- 
less fast asleep by the side of the bed, had given a deep sigh 
of satisfaction, when she heard David’s voice: 

“Inez, are you there?” 

“Yes, of course I’m here.” 

“Where have you been all night ? We have been looking 
for you everywhere.” 

Inez laughed. 

“ Soon after eleven o’clock I was here on my bed. Where 
else should I be ? ” she called out in lazy tones. 

“Are you undressed, Inez?” 

“No. What is that to -you ? ” 

“I want to speak to you. Will you open the door?” 

Inez hesitated for a minute, then sprang up and went close 
to the locked door. 


[59] 


A MADCAP 


“lam fully dressed. I was too tired to undress last night. 
I am absolutely safe. I’ve got the dog. You’d better know 
it. He’s mine; I’m going to keep him. I won’t give him 
up to anybody. If you’re going to scold me and be cross 
I won’t open the door. I’m going to keep Dreadless, so you 
had best know it.” 

“And you have him there, in your room?” 

“Yes; isn’t it fun?” 

“But how did you get him?” 

“Ah! I’m cleverer than you, Dave, although you are so 
proud of being an English boy. I followed that precious 
Farmer Scott, whom Suzette and Hal are so fond of, and I 
stole a bit of meat from the kitchen; and when the farmer 
and his family had gone to bed, I gave it to Dreadless, and 
took him home with me. Here he is, my darling. Oh, I 
am happy to have my treasure all my own.” 

David made no answer whatever to this. After a time 
Inez heard him moving slowly away. He went downstairs. 
There was a miserable group waiting in the hall. Mrs. 
Dering looked, oh, so tired and sad. Dolly was trying to 
suppress her yawns, and the servants were standing about. 

“You can all go to bed,” said David. “All, I mean, ex- 
cept Mother and Dolly.” 

The poor servants were only too glad to obey, and im- 
mediately left the hall. 

“What is it, David?” said his mother. 

“She’s there, Mother. She’s been in her room fast asleep 
most of the night, while we were searching for her. How 
could we think that she’d have stolen a march on us, and 
come home and gone to bed without anyone knowing? 
Dolly, you can go to bed.” 

“Oh, I shall be glad to do so,” said Dorothy. “I’m 
nearly dead with want of sleep.” 

“But first — ” said David. 

“Yes? What do you mean?” 

“She’s got Dreadless.” 


[6o] 


THE ANGEL PICTURE 


“What?” said Mrs. Dering. 

“She went for Dreadless last night, and coaxed him away 
from Farmer Scott. Farmer Scott had him, keeping him 
safe for the children — at least, that’s what I suppose — 
and she’s had him in her room all night. He’s in there now. 
She won’t part with him.” 

“Poor Suzette! Poor Hal!” was Mrs. Dering’s answer. 

“Mother, they’d better give him up to her. Mother 
darling, when can we go away?” 

“We’ll talk about that when we’ve had some sleep, David. 
Now go to your own room, my darling boy. You look 
absolutely worn out.” 

“What a naughty, troublesome girl Inez is,” thought 
Mrs. Dering as she went slowly to her own room. “Oh, 
how changed are all our lives since she has come here. Cer- 
tainly the sooner we leave Dering Towers the better.” 

Meanwhile Inez, in some trepidation, waited for David 
to return. Of course, he was certain to come back. He 
would come accompanied by his sister, and perhaps his 
mother. Inez felt quite indifferent as to what Dorothy 
would think of her, but somehow she did not exactly like 
to be rude or disagreeable to Mrs. Dering. 

“She’s not a bit like Mother,” thought the child, “and 
yet after a fashion she does remind me of Mother — Mother 
at the end, when she was dying. I hate to think of Mother 
when she was dying, and yet I can’t help myself. I wonder 
what’s the matter with me, and why I have such a strange 
feeling when I thmk of Mother, and then of Mrs. Dering?” 

Inez waited, therefore, on the tiptoe of expectation; but 
as no sounds whatever were heard, except the distant ones 
of the Dering family retiring to their much needed rest, she 
determined to wash and dress and make herself, as she ex- 
pressed it, respectable. She hated waiting on herself, hav- 
ing always been accustomed to someone else to attend on 
her, hand and foot. But she did take off the clothes she had 
slept in, and she put on fresh ones, and then, whistling care- 

[61] 


A MADCAP 

lessly to Dreadless, she opened the door of her room and 
went out. 

She got as far as one of the windows, when she uttered 
an exclamation of dismay, for the glorious summer weather 
had changed in the night, and it was now raining heavily. 
Inez was almost unacquainted with what we call a rainy 
day in England. She, of course, knew what the violent 
storms of the tropics meant, but a steady, comfortable Eng- 
lish downpour was more or less new to her, and she did not 
like it. 

“ Dreadless, we can’t go,” she said, turning to the dog, 
who wagged his tail, and pressed close to her side. “Never 
mind,” she said the next minute. “They all hate me ex- 
cept you, my dog!” And then she flung herself on her 
knees by his side, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed 
him on his smooth, mouse-coloured coat. 

“Oh, you are a darling!” she said several times. “You 
are a dear, perfect darling! I am glad you are mine. You 
will never love anyone as you love me, will you, Dreadless ? ” 

The dog certainly seemed to understand her. He licked 
her soft white hand and pressed close to her side, and a sense 
of warmth and comfort stole into her lonely little heart. 

“What shall we do this morning?” said Inez, speaking 
to the dog as though he were a human being. “We can’t 
go out, that’s evident. I should have to dress again, and 
change my nice starchy white clothes. That can’t be 
thought of. What shall we do? Oh, I know! I know! 
Dreadless, my dog, you will come to the picture-gallery with 
me, and see the portrait of my father. Come along, dear, 
come along.” 

Inez had some little trouble in finding the well-known 
picture-gallery of Dering Towers. But at last, walking in 
her erratic fashion through one part of the house and another, 
she pushed aside a green baize door, and found a long 
gallery, lit from above, which contained several portraits 
and other pictures. 


[62] 


THE ANGEL PICTURE 


“Now I wonder if I can guess which is Father,” thought 
the child. “Oh, I am sure I can, for there’s Mother’s 
miniature of him. It was set with diamonds, and she 
always wore it round her neck. I’ll know by that. I have 
the miniature now. Yes, I’ll know by that.” 

She walked down the gallery, and presently saw what 
she was convinced was the right portrait. It represented a 
fair young man with blue eyes, slightly aquiline features, and 
a sweet mouth. When the portrait was taken he could not 
have been more than two or three and twenty. His figure 
was slender. One hand rested on his gun. He wore a 
Norfolk suit of a dark rough brown. But the dress and the 
attitude were nothing at all to Inez. It was the expression 
that won her heart. The expression on his face was pecu- 
liarly happy and somewhat uncommon, for the artist had 
sketched the face just when a glint of the sun had touched 
the bright hair and lit up the expressive eyes, the effect being 
that all the face seemed to smile with a sort of radiance which 
Inez felt rather than understood. She knew that it was 
called “the angel picture,” and all of a sudden tears filled 
her eyes. 

“Darling Father,” she said aloud. “You are good, and 
I cannot be good. Why was I made such a naughty girl? 
Why do I hate being good? Darling Father, you who are 
up in Heaven, do you know that your naughty, naughty, 
terribly naughty Inez is down here, and that all this place be- 
longs to her, and she doesn’t want it ? She doesn’t want money, 
nor riches, nor the big place, but she wants love, and the only 
one who really loves her is this dog. And yet it is wrong of 
her to have him. Darling Father, can you understand?” 

As she spoke, saying the words half aloud, it seemed to 
her that the smile on the face grew more tender, and the 
eyes became more sympathetic. All of a sudden, in her 
wild, tempestuous fashion, she flung herself on the floor at 
the foot of the angel, picture, and sobbed as though her heart 
would break. 


[63] 


A MADCAP 


It was here Dorothy found her an hour later. Dorothy 
had a headache, and she could not sleep. It is true that she 
had gone to her room and prepared to lie down, but a feeling 
which she could scarcely account for prevented her taking 
off her clothes. She contented herself, therefore, with 
washing her face and hands, and rearranging her pretty 
hair. Then she went and tapped at Inez’s door. Yes, 
there was not a doubt of it, Inez was a thorn in the side of 
each member of the family. It was a thorn, however, which 
could not possibly be removed. She was the owner of the 
old place ; to her belonged the land, the house, and the money. 
To her also belonged many of the precious things that made 
up so large a part of Dorothy’s life. 

“But not quite all — not quite all,” thought the young 
girl. “There are some things which even Inez cannot take 
away from us — love, for instance, the love we each have 
for the other. But why should she possess herself of 
Suzette’s and Hal’s dog? They have loved him since he 
was a puppy, and Father gave him to them. No wonder 
they care for him. Why should Inez take him away?” 

Dorothy crossed the room and tapped at her cousin’s 
door. There was no answer. After a time she opened the 
door. The room was empty. The windows stood wide 
open, the soft splash of the summer rain filled Dorothy’s 
cars. She felt a sort of desolation. It was a wet day. Rain 
was falling from the sky, and rain had come into their lives. 
She felt an intense desire to get away — never to see Inez 
again; and yet, was this right? Ought she to despise her 
cousin? Ought she not rather to help her? 

Led by a sort of instinct which she did not herself under- 
stand, Dorothy went round the house looking for Inez. 
She did not particularly wish to find her, and yet she was 
impelled not to leave a single place unexamined. 

“They are all in bed, I shall have her to myself, and per- 
haps I could help her,” was her thought. 

And so by degrees, just because she must look here as 
[ 64 ] 


THE ANGEL PICTURE 


well as everywhere else, Dorothy found Inez in the picture- 
gallery. The Spanish girl was lying full length on the floor, 
her black, thick hair tossed about her head and shoulders, 
and half hiding her face. That same face was buried in 
her hands. She was sobbing without restraint. Close to 
her, drawn up on his haunches, sat Dreadless — Dreadless, 
with the look of strength, perhaps of manliness about him, 
which always characterised the splendid beast. He did 
not stir when he saw Dorothy approaching. He knew 
Dorothy and she knew him. He gave her a look as much 
as to say: 

“See what a wretched plight we are in! She is crying, 
and I can’t comfort her. You had best come along and see 
to the business.” 

But he did not move, only his eyes spoke the feelings of 
his doggie heart. 

There were thick carpets all along the picture-gallery, 
and Dorothy’s light steps made no sound. Inez was ab- 
sorbed in herself and in her feelings of desolation. She was 
a naughty, naughty girl, and her father had been such a 
good man. He was an angel now, with the angels; but she 
was down on earth, a very lonely girl, who did not want 
wealth, nor a beautiful place, nor anything but love. And 
oh, she was naughty, and naughty people did not win love. 

So she sobbed and sobbed, and in very truth her stormy 
little heart felt broken. 

Now Dorothy, who was differently brought up, who was 
cultured and self-con trolled, a girl who had not only been 
disciplined by love and forethought and education, but also 
had disciplined herself, came upon the scene. It was strange, 
Dorothy did not understand how it was, but her prejudices 
melted away, and quite suddenly she dropped on her knees, 
and with one hand on Dreadless’s neck, she laid the other 
on Inez’s dark head. 

“Get up, dear,” she said. “Don’t cry so bitterly. What 
is it, Inez?” 

[ 65 ] 


A MADCAP 


“Are you here?” said Inez, raising a tear-stained face. 
“Oh, I don’t want you. I know you hate me. I know 
you do. I don’t want you. Go away.” 

“I want you, Inez. Come, I love you, dear. Get up; 
don’t be so miserable.” 

To her amazement, Inez, in her impetuous fashion, 
sprang to her feet. 

“I wouldn’t tell a lie!” she said. “Bad as I am, I 
wouldn’t stoop to that. You know you don’t love me. 
You know it quite well.” 

“I am not telling a lie, Inez. I have no intention of doing 
so. It is true I did not love you, even when I entered this 
gallery; but I am sorry for you now, and I love you a little.” 

“But why are you sorry for me?” 

“Because you are unhappy.” 

“I should have thought you envied me. You ought to, 
you know. I’ve got everything — you lose ‘everything.” 

“No, Inez,” said Dorothy, then, in a firm voice: “Take 
my hand, won’t you, dear? Here’s a soft seat, and we can 
see your father’s picture. No, Inez,” continued Dorothy, 
as they both placed themselves on an ottoman just opposite 
the picture, “you are mistaken. You have not got every- 
thing. It is true you have got the place, but we have the 
love. We are going away together, each of us loving the 
other, oh, so deeply, Inez — so deeply!” 

“It’s horrid of you!” said Inez. “You needn’t throw it 
in my face. Don’t I know what it means ? I never had 
anybody to love me really — nobody except Mother. 
There’s Tanta Marcia, but she doesn’t love me — she only 
loves what I can give her. She talked to me about what I 
could give her, on the way home. She used to say to me, 
‘Inez, you’d never let your old Tanta want for anything/ 
and she used to say, ‘You’ll pay my debts, Inez. I’ll run 
up bills for jewellery in the London shops, and you will pay 
for them, because you love your Tanta.’ And one day I 
said that I wouldn’t pay her debts, and then she raged and 
[ 66 ] 


THE ANGEL PICTURE 


raved as though she were mad. Oh, no, she doesn’t love 
me. And the children out in Dominica — they only loved 
me when I gave them chocolates and sweetmeats and rare 
fruits out of our garden. No one loves me just for myself 
— no one, only Dreadless. Come here, Dreadless.” 

Dreadless came up to her. She put her arms round his 
neck. 

“See for yourself, Dorothy! You have got David, such 
a good, manly sort of boy, and those tiresome twins, Suzette 
and Hal, and you have got Christopher and the little baby 
sister, and your dear, dear mother. Yes, your mother is 
dear; I could love her if she were mine. But I have no one. 
What’s the place ? Why, even the servants won’t stay with 
me! What’s the place without anybody to love you? And 
I’ve only got the dog. And the dog does care for me, don’t 
you, Dreadless? Lick my hand, darling, if you do.” 

Dorothy watched with a sort of fascination. Dreadless 
came close, and with his tongue licked Inez’s soft white 
hand. 

“You can see for yourself, Dorothy,” she said. “The 
moment he saw me he took to me, and I want him. Can’t 
I have him? It’s unkind of you to take him away. Tell 
the twins that they shall have anything else, but I want 
Dreadless. Let me have Dreadless. Let me be happy.” 

“I’ll ask them,” said Dorothy. “I partly understand 
you. We are going away soon, but I’ll see if you can’t keep 
Dreadless.” 

“I’ll pay for him if it comes to that.” 

“No, you mustn’t pay; and before I say any more I should 
like to tell you something about him. You have heard of 
my father?” 

“I suppose so, but I don’t know much.” 

“He was your father’s brother, a little younger than your 
father, and they were always great chums. I’ll show you 
my father’s picture. It is just there; you see that man 
with dark eyes, in soldier’s uniform — that’s my father.” 

[67] 


A MADCAP 


“He looks much older than mine,” said Inez, giving the 
second portrait a careless glance. 

“Yes, because that picture was painted by Richmond 
five years ago, and your father’s picture was painted — oh, 
before you were born. Well, that’s my father, and there 
were few men so brave and so dear. And we knew him, 
remember. He was not just a memory in our hearts; he 
was a real person in our lives. He w’ent away, and he was 
killed. But one thing he did a short time before he left us 
was to give Dreadless to Suzette and Hal. The dog was 
only a puppy then, and Suzette and Hal were wild with de- 
light ; and they always considered him their own special dog. 
So you see, now that our father is dead, it seems hard to the 
twins that they should part from the dog. Can’t you see 
that?” 

“No, I can’t,” said Inez restlessly. “I don’t even pre- 
tend that I can. They have got one another. I have got 
no one. That’s why I want the dog, because I’ve got no 
one.” 

“I’ll speak to them,” said Dorothy. “I know they’ll do 
what is right.” 

“If you do, I shall love you so much, Dorothy. You 
don’t know what I won’t do for you. Oh, Dorothy, why 
need you go away? Can’t you stay and help me to be a 
good girl? Can’t you?” 

“Oh, you mustn’t ask me that,” said Dorothy. “You 
asked Suzette, and she refused. I have to be with Mother.” 

“But, indeed, indeed, I do wish you’d stay. It would 
be so perfect, so lovely. I don’t pretend that I love you very 
much yet; but you would be a great help to me if Tanta 
Marcia comes here. Perhaps your mother won’t stay; but 
you — won’t you try ? Won’t you think of it ? ” 

“I daren’t think of it. I couldn’t do it,” said Dorothy. 

She got up as she spoke. 

“You’re as white as a sheet, Inez,” she said suddenly. 
“Whether you are a good girl or a naughty girl, or a selfish 
[ 68 ] 


THE ANGEL PICTURE 


girl or an unselfish girl, you want your breakfast, and so 
do I. Come downstairs now. The rest of the family will 
sleep for two or three hours. You know you gave us a very 
bad time last night. But come, now, you and I must have 
our breakfast.” 


[69] 


CHAPTER VIII 


Preparing jor the Departure 

After all, it was arranged that the boarhound should stay 
with Inez. Nobody quite knew w r hat Suzette and Hal 
suffered. They were brave children. Dorothy put it be- 
fore them. She explained to them that love meant more 
than riches, and more than a beautiful place. She showed 
them quite clearly, and in a manner they could never 
forget, that they were much better off than their 
cousin Inez, and that they ought, therefore, to be kind 
to her, and they ought to give up Dreadless for their 
father’s sake. It was very hard on Dorothy to have 
to speak to them as she did, and very bitter for them 
to understand ; but having been brought up from the very 
first to think of others more than themselves, they agreed 
to Dorothy’s wishes. 

“Tell her she may have him, but she is not to speak about 
it, and while we are here we are to go on just as though he 
were still our dog. And tell her never, never to talk about 
it while we are present,” said Suzette. 

And then Hal hid his head in Dorothy’s lap, and Dorothy 
felt that he was trembling all over. She just comforted and 
kissed him. 

“ Good, brave Hal,” she said. “ Suzette, you are a darling. 
I know you will never be sorry for this.” 

Inez was really touched when Dorothy brought her the 
news that she could keep Dreadless. Her expressive eyes 
opened wide for a minute, and a softened, wonderful light 
filled them. 

“They don’t know how I thank them! Yes, I’ll agree 
to everything,” she said. “I won’t talk about him, nor 

t 7° ] 


PREPARING FOR THE DEPARTURE 


pretend that he is mine. But when they are gone — oh, 
they, don’t know how I shall thank them.” 

Meanwhile preparations for the departure of the Derings 
went on rapidly. The Dering children were most anxious 
now to leave the Towers. It was not the same place that it 
had been; the dread of the coming parting was hanging over 
them, and Mrs. Dering knew that the sooner she put them 
out of their misery, as she expressed it, the kinder it would 
be to them. Accordingly she hastened her enquiries with 
regard to villas abroad, and finally arranged to take the 
children to a pretty, little out-of-the-way place in Normandy 
for the winter. In the summer they would travel, but 
during the winter they would just stay in the pretty seaside 
villa which Mrs. Dering had secured for them. They 
would take their own servants, those servants who had de- 
clined to remain with Inez as mistress, and then they would 
not be really uncomfortable. 

Mrs. Dering’s lawyers were very busy making the best 
terms they could for her and her children; and Inez, once 
she was certain that Dreadless would be her own special 
possession, seemed to take no further interest in anything 
else. 

It w r as the day before they went, and Dorothy and David 
were pacing up and down on the wide front terrace. The 
other children had gone to say good-bye to some of their 
different haunts, Mrs. Dering was in her room, the two 
elder Derings, thus, were alone. 

“I wonder if we’ll ever come back,” said Dorothy. 

“I don’t want to,” answered David. “I want to start my 
new life just as though I never thought I should be a rich 
boy. I think, after all, a hard life will be the best for me. 
What do you think, Doll?” 

“In the long run,” she answered, but her eyes filled with 
tears. 

It was just then that Inez ran up. She looked excited, 
and her eyes were full of fire. 

[71] 


A MADCAP 


“Tanta Marcia is quite well,” she said. “I have had a 
telegram from her, and she is coming here to-night.” 

“To-night?” asked Dorothy in some perplexity and 
alarm. 0 

“She says I mustn’t be left alone, and as you are all start- 
ing at cock-crow to-morrow, she will come to take me into 
her care before you leave. I wonder if you will like her. 
She is like no one you have ever seen. Of course, I love her, 
that is, after a fashion.” 

Dorothy made no answer, but a look of intense dislike 
at the approaching meeting swept over her young face. 
David said gently: 

“You must give your own directions now, Inez, for you 
are mistress.” 

“You said a short time ago that I wasn’t.” 

“You are now.” 

Inez looked at him. 

“I have done every single thing you told me,” she said. 
“I have even gone to that horrid Fisher of yours, and told 
him that if I were an English girl I’d be very sorry that I 
had spoiled the orchids, but being a Spanish girl I could 
scarcely be sorry. And he said: 

“ T understand, missie. It’s done now, and don’t ever 
think of it any more.’ 

“Then I said to him: 

“ ‘Will you stay on and be my gardener; and will you own 
that I am your real missis and obey me?’ 

“But he shook his head, and said: 

“ ‘If you were an English lady I might; but being a 
Spaniard I couldn’t.’ 

“I don’t think he ought to have been so rude, and I don’t 
see what more I could have done. And I can’t imagine 
why you, David, are so cold and cross to me. You are 
worse than Dorothy, for Dorothy, now, does understand me 
a little — I mean she did when she got the children to give 
me Dreadless. I should like to be friends with you, Dave, 

[ 7^1 


PREPARING FOR THE DEPARTURE 


and I should like you and Dolly to come here for the Christ- 
mas holidays. Do you think you will ? Would your 
mother let you? Oh, it would make me so -happy. I’d 
have everything arranged in the most splendid style. 
Couldn’t you come? Wouldn’t you, Dave, dear Dave?” 

“But why should Dorothy and I leave Mother all by her- 
self for the Christmas holidays ? ” replied David. 

Inez looked at him, then she glanced at Dorothy. 

“Dolly,” she said suddenly, “I used to think it was David 
I wanted. First of all, it was Suzette, but I don’t want her 
a bit now. Then for a time it was David ; but now it is you, 
for you are so wise, and yet, at the same time, you don’t 
preach sermons. When you, Dorothy, speak gently to me 
I seem to understand you. Will you stay with me, Dorothy ? 
Not for Christmas, but always? Will you be my sister? 
Will you be what Suzette refused to be ? Will you help me 
to be a good girl ? ” 

Dorothy’s face turned pale, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“I believe I do like you, Inez,” she said at last. “And 
I think, just a little, I even understand you. But you ask 
me what is quite impossible, for no more than Suzette or 
David could I leave Mother and my own brothers and 
sisters.” 

“Don’t you think that is very selfish of you?” was Inez’s 
next remark. “You expect me to be good, and yet you 
won’t help me in the very least. If you were here, for in- 
stance, I would keep the place just as you and your father, 
whom you are all so fond of, have always kept it. I’d be so 
afraid of hurting you that I’d do nothing, really. Only, 
you know Tanta Marcia will try to do things in the Spanish 
way, and if I were all alone I should not be able to prevent 
her. But if you were here, why then there need be no altera- 
tions.” 

David winced. Inez, with her quick, black eyes, ob- 
served the expression of his face. 

“You would not like that lawn to be cut up and filled with 

[ 73 ] 


A MADCAP 


tomatoes, and all sorts of vegetables,” she said quickly. 
“And you wouldn’t like all your servants sent away — your 
steward and the rest, and Spanish servants got in their places. 
And you wouldn’t like us to have meals in the Spanish way, 
and you wouldn’t — you wouldn’t — ” 

David suddenly moved away. 

“You mustn’t talk about it to me,” he said. “I shall 
have nothing more to do with Dering Towers. Dorothy, 
will you come with me, or shall I go alone? I want to go 
this very minute to say good-bye to Barnard.” 

Inez had taken Dorothy’s hand. 

“You can speak for yourself,” she said. “You needn’t 
mind Dave.” 

“Yes, I’ll stay with you for a little,” said Dorothy in her 
gentle voice, and David immediately strode out of sight. 

Dorothy put her hand inside her cousin’s arm, and they 
paced up and down. 

“I can’t stay with you now,” she said; “that is quite im- 
possible. But I will, if you greatly wish it, come back for 
a short visit by and by. Not for long, of course, but for a 
little time. But you must write and ask me, for perhaps 
when I have gone you will find that you can get on quite 
well without me.” 

“No, I shall never be able to get on without you. The 
more I see you, the more I want you,” said Inez. “I shall 
be lost when you are gone. I shall be miserable.” 

Heavy tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her 
cheeks. 

“Dorothy,” she said suddenly, “don’t you understand that 
I really, really love you ? ” 

“I think perhaps you do, Inez,” said Dorothy in a gentle 
tone. 

“Don’t you think it would please me to do just what you 
liked?”, 

“Would it? And will you do it ? ” 

“Tell me — tell me what you would like, Dolly.” 

[74] 


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PREPARING FOR THE DEPARTURE 


“What we would like,” said Dorothy, speaking very 
slowly, “is to have the place altered very little. We would 
like the gardens to be kept in order; and our poor people, 
whom we have always loved, attended to, and if they wanted 
help in the winter that they should get it — the proper kind 
of help, I mean. Oh, how can I make you understand. 
But if you will consult with Mrs. Barnard — ” 

“Your steward’s wife?” 

“Yes, she will understand. She knows all about the 
poor, and she would be glad to help you.” 

“But you know, of course you must know, that she and 
Barnard are going ? I must have my own steward — a man 
who has just come from Dominica.” 

Dorothy turned pale, and did not speak at all for a minute. 
Then she said slowly : 

“You ask me what I would like. I know well that 
Mother would like to give the school children a feast at 
Christmas and another in the summer. And we all want 
you to be very kind to Dreadless. The other dogs are 
coming with us, but you know what we feel about Dread- 
less, for Father gave him to Suzette and Hal.” 

u Oh, yes, I know. And you want, I suppose, the green- 
houses and all the stupid flowers kept up much as they are 
now ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“But it isn’t your place, you know.” 

“I am only telling you what we would like. I don’t ask 
you to do any of these things. But I do ask you, Inez, not 
to forget that on your father’s side you are an English girl, 
and when you are tempted to remember only that you are a 
Spaniard, with all that wildness and that energy and that 
passion which you do possess, to try and remember that 
your father was an Englishman, and to do what he would 
like were he alive.” 

“Oh, I always see his face,” said Inez suddenly. “I told 
you that before, didn’t I ? I see that wonderful picture of 

[75] 


A MADCAP 


him when he was dying, and when he kissed me and told 
Mother, dear Mother, to have me taught the English lan- 
guage. Now, you know, I can go and see his picture. Are 
you certain, Dorothy, that he would like things to be kept 
as you have them?” 

“Well, yes, I am quite certain; for, remember, our father 
was here for years after your father’s death, all the time 
when he thought he was the real owner of the place, and he 
used often to say: 

“‘Clement would have liked this if he were alive,’ or 
‘Clement and I used to talk of that.’ 

“It was always of some improvement that they had talked 
about together. I know, therefore, Inez, that you would 
please your own father if he could speak to you, if you kept 
the place something as it is now.” 

“Well, I’ll see,” said Inez restlessly. “If you lived with 
me there’d be no doubt on the subject; but it is all very well 
for you to talk about these things and then to desert me. 
That is what you are doing. But oh, I say, if that isn’t 
Tanta Marcia herself driving up the avenue. Don’t keep 
me, Dolly! I must run and kiss her, dear old Tanta!” 

Inez flew down the steps, rushed across the grass plat, 
and a minute later was folded in the arms of a very stout 
woman, with a face something like her own, who wore a 
long black lace mantilla falling away from her face. Some 
eager words passed between the two, and then Inez vanished 
with her aunt into the house. 

She came out again in less than half an hour. Her sallow 
face was flushed, and her eyes looked bright. 

“Tanta is cross,” she said. “She thought you had all 
gone. She doesn’t want to meet any of you. Tanta can 
be terribly rude when she likes, and she’s shut up in her 
room now with her black maid Carline. Carline is a dread- 
ful woman — oh, so cross, worse than Tanta! She’s trying 
to make some chocolate for Tanta now, in the Spanish 
fashion, and she can’t manage it, and the servants are 

[76] 


PREPARING FOR THE DEPARTURE 


awfully frightened. I wish you’d stay, Dorothy. Of course 
I love Tanta, but I’ll never be able to keep up the place as 
you’d like it, now that Tanta has come. She says that the 
English servants are to go, and she’s expecting all the ser- 
vants that we need to come over from Dominica by the next 
boat. She did pull me about and look at me, and ask me if 
I’d got rid of you all, and if I’d shown that I am really mis- 
tress. She’s very keen about money, is old Tanta. She’s not 
what you’d call nice, and, and — I wish you wouldn’t leave 
me, Dolly. Can’t you stay? I can’t be good if you don’t.” 

As Inez spoke the colour came and went in her cheeks. 

“Why should you leave me, Dolly? You are much, 
much better than Suzette, or any of the others. Can’t you 
even stay as long as Christmas? Must you go away to- 
morrow morning?” 

“Oh, Inez, you tear my heart!” said poor Dorothy. “If 
I could be two people I’d stay gladly with you. If I could 
cut myself in two I’d leave one part with you and take the 
other part with Mother. But I can’t, I can’t, and Mother 
must come first. And then, do you suppose your aunt 
would stand it? Why, she wouldn’t allow me to stay for a 
single hour.” 

“But she’s not the mistress here. I’m the real mistress,” 
said the angry and despotic child. “She shan’t interfere 
with Dreadless, and if you stay she shan’t interfere with you 
either. Dolly, you have nothing to fear from her. Won’t 
you save me? Won’t you save me?” 

“I can’t. It is useless,” said poor Dorothy. 

Inez’s eager words were interrupted. A very stout, un- 
gainly figure was seen suddenly to stand on the balcony of 
the best spare bedroom, and Tanta Marcia, bending for- 
ward, began to talk, to her niece in Spanish. Inez listened 
and frowned, then she shook her head angrily. When this 
produced no result she shook her hand, and with a scarlet 
face she dashed into the house and up to Tanta Marcia’s 
room. 


[77] 


A MADCAP 


“Why don’t you come at once, when I want you?” said 
the Spanish woman. “You are very much changed, and 
not improved. I have been ill, and I expect my niece to 
look after me. What were you doing, talking to that horrid 
English girl?” 

“She’s not horrid. I love her,” was Inez’s remark. “I 
tell you what it is, Tanta Marcia. I wish her to live 
here always. Yes, I do, and the sooner you know it 
the better.” 

“But I shan’t allow it,” said Tanta Marcia. “You for- 
get that I am mistress here until you are twenty-one. You 
are only a little girl now. I shall live for years in this horrid 
cold, nasty English place that I hate! — I hate! But you 
don’t suppose that you’ll have your own way. There’s no 
chance of it. I’ll do exactly as I like, and I won’t let you 
have anything to do with the English girl.” 

“But, Tanta, I should be miserable without some child 
to play with me.” 

Inez’s face had suddenly grown frightened. 

“Miserable or not, you will do what I wish,” said the 
angry lady, and she raised her hand and slapped Inez on 
her ear. 

Inez gave a shriek of pain and dashed from the room. 
She had been feeling quite good, that is for her, during the 
last few days, but now all her worst passions were awakened. 
She rushed through the house and out into the open air. 
Her cousins were all going away; they would leave her. 
What could she do? Tanta Marcia would be cruel, as she 
had been cruel long ago in Dominica. And what, after all, 
were riches? Dorothy thought nothing at all about them, 
nor did David, nor did any of her cousins. 

Inez stood quite still, looking wildly about her. Suddenly 
she saw Hal. He was standing by himself, looking as un- 
happy as a little boy could look. She ran up to him. 

“Hal, I know you hate me.” 

“Well, I can’t say I love you much,” said Hal. 

[78] 


PREPARING FOR THE DEPARTURE 


“But you don’t hate me nearly as much as I hate Tanta 
Marcia.” 

“Who’s she?” 

“My Spanish aunt. She has come, and she’s so cross. 
She’s awfully cruel, and I cannot bear her. Hal, I wonder 
if you would help me.” 

“In what way?” said Hal. 

“I could give you a lot of money if you would. I am ever 
so rich, you know, and I could give you enough money to 
buy a dog like Dreadless, whom you could have as your own 
when you go to France.” 

Now Hal had been fretting very much about Dreadless, 
he had not yet got over the pain of losing him. It is true 
there never was a little boy who knew less about money; 
but for the past month he heard money talked of a good deal. 
It was because of it that the children were obliged to go and 
live in France. It was because there was very little money 
that the dogs and the cats and all the birds and all the pets 
of every sort and degree could not go with them. There- 
fore money must be a very desirable thing. 

“Would you really give me money, Inez?” he said. 
“How much would you give me?” 

Inez put her hand into her pocket. She pulled out quite 
a number of gold pieces — sovereigns and half sovereigns. 

“Tanta Marcia gave these to me in a little bag a few 
minutes after she arrived,” said Inez. “She said they were 
mine, that she had sold some of my mother’s jewellery, and 
that these were what she got for them. Carline, the old 
black servant, had the bag in her pocket, and when Tanta 
Marcia spoke to her she pulled it out, and Tanta threw it 
into my lap. She can be very generous sometimes, and very 
stingy at other times. I am glad she gave me the money. 
Now, Hal, if you will help me — I have got a lovely plan in 
my head — you can take as much of this money as ever you 
want, for I don’t care a bit about it.” 

Hal stretched out his small hand eagerly. 

[79] 


A MADCAP 


“May I take one piece?” he said. 

Inez burst into a laugh. 

“ One! ” she cried. “You may take one, two, three, four, 
five — you may take five pieces, and take the big ones, they 
are worth more than the little ones.” 

Now Hal had hardly ever had any money of his own be- 
fore, certainly not more than half-a-crown at a time, and 
now he found himself with five sovereigns all his own. 

“They do look nice,” he said. 

“And they are nice. They will buy you things. They 
will buy another dog like Dreadless.” 

“But even if I had another dog like Dreadless he wouldn’t 
have the heart of Dreadless,” said the little boy. 

“No more he would. Still, slip that money into your 
pocket, and let’s walk up and down. I’ll tell you exactly 
what I want you to do.” 

“But I’m not at all sure that I’ll do it.” 

“Then you’ll have to give me back the money. You 
don’t keep the money, the five beautiful sovereigns, unless 
you do exactly what I want. Then you’ll never have 
another dog like Dreadless, never, never. You’ll go away 
to-morrow, with the others, and be as poor as church mice 
all the rest of your life.” 

“What do you want, Inez? I didn’t say I wouldn’t do 
it. I only said I wasn’t sure.” 

“Oh, you are quite a nice little boy, Hal, when you look 
pleasant. I believe I shall end by liking you very much. 
Let me whisper to you. It isn’t so very difficult, and after 
all it is worth doing for the sake of all that beautiful money.” 

“What is it, Inez? Why don’t you speak?” 

“Well, it is this. I want Dorothy to stay behind with me 
when the rest of you go to-morrow.” 

“Dorothy? Why?” 

“Why? Because I want her. Now you and I can 
manage it. I have thought of a way. Listen. It won’t be 
anything really wrong, and you will have all that money to 
[ 80 ] 


PREPARING FOR THE DEPARTURE 


buy Christmas presents. Won’t you like that? I mean 
you will have what you don’t spend upon your dog. But 
you must never, never, tell how you got it. Now then, 
listen. This is my plan.” 


[Si ] 


CHAPTER IX 
Hal’s Mysterious Illness 

Hal looked very mysterious at supper time. His face 
was pale and his eyes big with excitement. Nobody 
specially noticed him, however. His brothers and sisters 
were far too eager and excited about their journey on the 
next day. The servants who were going with them were 
intensely busy. Nurse, in particular, had not a minute to 
attend to any of the fads of the children. 

Now there was a specially nice supper. All those things 
were on the table which Hal most liked. His favourite cake, 
his favourite apple tart, the whipped cream which he so 
adored; there was fruit, too, of all sorts. Yes, the supper 
was, indeed, tempting and fascinating. Hal had eaten very 
little dinner, and was particularly hungry, quite starving 
in fact. He changed his place when he came in to supper, 
and sat near Inez. This in itself was rather remarkable, 
but Inez gave his hand a squeeze under the table, and bend- 
ing towards him said in a low voice: 

“Remember, I gave you five pounds to do it.” 

To the astonishment, therefore, of all his party, Hal re- 
fused his supper. He shook his head over the tender bit of 
chicken which Dorothy handed him. It is true that 
he looked longingly at the plum cake, but he could 
not touch it. The apple tart followed the same fate. 
The cream was put before him, but was sent away 
untasted. 

Meanwhile his own hungry little face became whiter and 
whiter; and when it came to his refusing some delicious 
peaches, and when Dorothy said, “You won’t be having 
lovely peaches perhaps for a long time,” he burst into tears. 

[82] 


HALS MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS 

This immediately attracted Suzette, who rushed up to 
his side. 

“What is it, Hal, darling? Why don’t you eat?” 

“Oh, it’s the aches — the awful pain,” said Hal. And 
then he rolled from side to side, and clasped his arms to- 
gether and cried harder than before. 

Immediately there was a great fuss and consternation. 
Hal was seldom known to be ill, but it so happened that 
once or twice he had had very severe attacks of pain, pain so 
sudden and mysterious that the doctor had to be summoned, 
and mustard poultices applied and all sorts of things used 
to bring down the severe agony. Hal had not had any of 
these attacks for a couple of years, and his mother fondly 
hoped that he had quite outgrown them. The doctor had 
informed her, however, that he might have them until he 
was a much older boy, and he must always be very careful 
on no account to get a chill at such times. Mrs. Dering 
was, therefore, much distressed when Hal now exhibited 
all the signs of his old complaint. Naughty Hal! Not an 
ache nor pain had he except the very sharp pain of hunger. 
But he had remembered about these bad attacks when he 
and Inez had concocted their wicked plot, and he acted his 
part now with great vigour. 

When the doctor at last arrived on the scene, he carefully 
examined the child. He certainly seemed to be suffering, 
but he was not feverish, nor had he a quick pulse. Dr. 
Andrews said he was to go to bed at once, and although the 
attack did not seem to be very serious, yet it would 
be unwise for the boy to leave Dering Towers the next 
morning. 

“Then if Hal stays,” cried Inez, who had been standing 
a little apart in the back of the room, “you will stay too, 
won’t you, Aunt Millicent?” 

“Thank you very much, Inez,” replied her aunt; “but 
unless Hal is much worse I shall have to go to-morrow, as 
I have made some important engagements in Dieppe.” 

[83] 


A MADCAP 


“I could stay, couldn’t I, Mother?” said Dorothy, coming 
forward and offering her services as Hal’s caretaker. 

Inez’s eyes grew so very bright when Dorothy spoke, and 
she gave Hal such a quick, satisfied glance, that if the chil- 
dren had been specially noticing, they might have suspected 
the part that the naughty little boy was playing. They were 
all too excited, however, to observe anything special. 

Hal was put to bed, and Dorothy went to sit by him. 
He thought that he might be quieter now, and not give way 
to any more screaming fits. He was scarcely sorry yet for 
what he had done, for he thought of the five sovereigns wdiich 
he had hidden away under the floor of Longears’ hutch, 
near the chicken run. It was worth suffering something 
to get five pounds; and then Inez had faithfully promised 
to bring him some bread and jam to eat during the night. 
He really hated being left behind, but if Dorothy stayed 
with him it need not be so bad; and now that he had the 
money to buy another dog like Dreadless, it was worth 
putting up with something to keep it safe. 

So he lay and thought his own thoughts, and forgot how 
naughty he was, and how bad was his behaviour, and 
presently he dropped asleep. 

He awoke very early in the morning, to find Inez bend- 
ing over him. 

“How are you, Hal?” she asked in a whisper. 

“Quite — ” 

“Don’t say it, Hal; you must pretend that you are very 
ill indeed. If you don’t, Aunt Millicent will take you away. 
You managed splendidly last night. No one ever did a 
thing better. I could hardly keep from rolling about the 
floor with laughter, and Tanta Marcia, she was so certain 
that you were in dreadful pain. She spoke to me about it 
upstairs, and I did nothing but laugh and laugh; and she 
said I was the most heartless girl she had ever come across. 
Oh, Hal, isn’t it just screamingly funny?” 

“I don’t think so at all,” answered Hal. “I wish you 

[84] 


HAL'S MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS 


wouldn’t pretend that it is, Inez. I have done it for you, 
and I don’t know why I should do it for you.” 

“I like that,” said Inez. “You have done it for your 
money, and you mean to buy another dog like Dreadless.” 

“Well, it isn’t at all nice for me, whether I get the dog or 
not,” continued Hal. “I’m just mad with hunger. You 
never brought me that bread and jam, although you prom- 
ised you would. And if ever it is discovered, Mother won’t 
be able to forgive me. I know she won’t and I’m not sur- 
prised a bit. I’m an awfully, awfully naughty boy. You 
always were a bad girl — very bad — but now I’m naughty 
too. What shall I do?” 

“You’re just a stunning boy; that’s what I call you!” 

“ Oh, I don’t like your stunning boys. And why didn’t 
you bring me the bread and jam ? ” 

“ I didn’t dare to, for Aunt Millicent stayed up so late, 
and I was so afraid I’d be found out. She came up to see you 
twice, and said the last time she thought the pain must have 
gone off, and perhaps you would be able to go away with 
the rest of them. Now listen, Hal. If by any chance you 
go, you’ll have to give me back that money; for if you don’t 
I’ll tell.” 

“ Oh, you wouldn’t tell, would you, Inez?” 

Hal raised himself in bed and gazed at his cousin with 
terrified eyes. 

“ I won’t tell if you are good; but if you are bad and dis- 
agreeable, I will tell.” 

“Of course, I don’t want to go, Inez.” 

“Well, that’s all right. Now I have just crept out of my 
warm bed, and it’s ever so early yet, to give you directions. 
Whatever happens, you mustn’t eat any breakfast. It will 
be brought to you, but you mustn’t touch it. When they’re 
gone you shall have as much as ever you can stuff. Dolly is 
going to stay behind, but she will go as far as the railway 
station, and while she’s away you may eat; and when she 
comes back you can pretend that you are better, quite a lot 

[85] 


A MADCAP 


better, and we’ll have a jolly day. I’ll take you into Effing- 
ham to buy some things. I can very well spare you another 
pound, and I will gladly, if you will only do exactly what I 
want.” 

“But where’s the bread and jam?” was Hal’s answer. 

“I didn’t dare to bring much, for perhaps you’d leave 
crumbs and things. Just gobble up this morsel while I 
watch.” 

Inez took from her pocket a very tiny piece of bread, 
which also was quite dry and destitute of jam, and put it 
into Hal’s hand. 

“But I don’t want dry bread. I want bread and butter 
and jam.” 

“Well, you can’t have it. Eat up what you’ve got and be 
satisfied.” 

Hal did eat it. He ate greedily. Never before had he 
known how delicious even dry bread could be when you 
were awfully hungry. 

“Lie down now, and when they bring you your breakfast 
don’t eat one morsel, and be sure you say that the pain is as 
. bad as ever when you move, but when you stay quite still it 
is pretty easy. Now I must run away. I daren’t be found 
here for all the world.” 

Inez danced away to her own room. No one had seen 
her go to Hal’s room, and no one saw her return. Her plans 
seemed to be turning out successfully. She would have her 
own way. Of course she would! Had she not all her life 
had her own way? At one time she would have preferred 
Suzette as her adopted sister, but she was accustomed to 
Suzette’s beauty by now, and did not like her manners. 
Dolly was the one of the Dering children whom, for the 
present, she liked best. 

“She shan’t go. I will manage to keep her when once 
the rest of them are off,” thought the child. “Oh, how 
clever I am! Who but I would have thought of such a 
plan?” 


[ 86 ] 


HAL'S MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS 


Suzette cried a good deal when it was finally decided that 
Hal could not go; and Hal looked at her with woebegone 
eyes, and for a minute he even thought that five pounds 
were not worth the look of distress on his twin’s beautiful 
little face. 

“I’ll come soon,” he said; “perhaps to-morrow, Sue.” 

“Oh, no, Hal, you can’t,” sobbed poor Suzette, “for 
Mother says she can’t possibly go to Dieppe for a week, so 
you and Dolly will have to stay here for all that time; and 
I think it will kill me, I do indeed. I wish Mother had let 
me stay with you and taken Dolly with her, for she will want 
her so badly, and I’m of no use at all.” 

“You’d be of real use to me,” said Hal. “I wish you 
could have stayed. I wish I’d thought of it last night.” 

“Oh, no; they wouldn’t let me stay. And here’s that 
horrid Inez. Why should she poke her head in just when 
we were saying good-bye? Hasn’t she got just everything; 
and why shouldn’t she leave us for our last few minutes 
together?” 

Inez did come in. She looked grave and sad, although 
her eyes twinkled when Hal gazed at her very hard. 

Then Mother arrived, and kissed and petted her little 
boy, and was only satisfied to leave him by the knowledge 
that Dorothy would stay, and the doctor, who had known 
Hal from his infancy, would be close by. And Hal himself 
was not feverish. 

“I must go, my darling,” she said. “Good-bye, dear 
Hal. I will come and meet you and Dorothy at Dieppe 
this day week.” 

So Mother went, and so did Suzette and David and 
Christopher and Baby Violet, and Dorothy went with them 
as far as the station. So only Hal was left behind — a 
miserable, guilty little boy. But Inez had sparkling eyes 
full of victory, for now she thought she could see her way 
to keeping Dorothy with her always. 

Tanta Marcia, however, was not at all pleased when she 

[s?] 


A MADCAP 

was told that Dorothy Dering was to stay for another week 
at Dering Towers. 

“I don’t like her,” said that woman. “She doesn’t suit 
me. She has a grave, judging sort of face, just as though 
she’d read me through. I hate her eyes, they seem to pierce 
me. I don’t mind that little boy, but that tall English girl! 
her eyes are too blue, and she’s too — too strong. Send 
her away, Inez.” 

“She’s not going away, Tanta,” said Inez. 

“What?” cried Tanta. “Do you mean to tell me — 
oh! what a little bad miss you are!” 

“You just listen, Tanta Marcia. I want Dorothy. I 
mean her to stay as my friend, and I mean her to have half 
of everything. As to Hal — he can go — oh, any day. I am 
mistress here; you understand that, Tanta Marcia, and you — ” 

“Oh, you are bete /” said the Spanish woman. “Carline, 
come here. Let me tell you what that wicked, that ungrate- 
ful child means to do.” 

The black servant waddled to her feet, rolled her eyes, 
and hiding her hands in her coloured apron, stared straight 
at Tanta Marcia. 

Tanta Marcia began to talk in a high, excited voice, and 
the black servant rolled her eyes more than ever, and looked 
unspeakably horrified. Inez ran out of the room. She 
flew up to Hal’s bedroom. 

“There’s a beautiful breakfast coming up to you,” she 
said. “It’s the sort that we have in Dominica — peaches 
and green figs and melons, and you can have a bit of bread 
if you like. Then you may dress and go downstairs.” 

“But Dolly — when will she be back?” 

“Not for nearly an hour.” 

“And the doctor is coming. Don’t forget that.” 

“You are a very good boy, and you may go and look for 
your money.” 

“But will you take me to Effingham? You promised 
you would, Inez.” 

[ 88 ] 


HAL'S MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS 


“Yes, I’ll take you in the governess cart. I will drive 
the pony myself.” 

“Oh, but you mustn’t, Inez. You mustn’t drive Spit- 
fire. He’s quite dangerous. Dolly can drive him.” 

“We don’t want Dolly to drive with us. I want to do a 
secret when I am at Effingham, and you must help me a lot, 
Hal. I’m going to be awfully fond of you — you don’t 
know how fond. They’re all gone now, except Dolly and 
you ; and you and Dolly shall have a good time, a very good 
time. And I want to go to Effingham and to drive Spitfire 
myself, and you shall come with me; and I’ll give you a 
wdiole sovereign besides the five pounds you have already 
got; and you shall spend it on just the things you like best.” 

“I might buy a present for Suzette and Dorothy.” 

“I don’t care how you spend it. You needn’t tell me 
about your horrid presents. I’m off now, to order a lot of 
peaches and the nicest of the pears to be picked. The 
gardeners shall soon find out who’s mistress now that I’m 
about. Don’t keep me any longer. You can be running 
about the place when Dolly comes back.” 


CHAPTER X 

The Accident 

When Dorothy did return she was much amazed to find 
that Hal was out and looking very much as usual. Not quite 
as usual, however, for his brown eyes were often seeking 
the ground, and he did not like it at all when Dorothy put 
her arm round him and drew him close to her and said, as 
she kissed him on his forehead: 

“Oh, I am so thankful, Hal. Last night Mother and I 
were quite frightened about you. You did seem to be in 
such awful pain.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t fuss about me now,” said Hal, 
speaking quite angrily, for as a rule he was a very affection- 
ate, well-behaved little boy. 

“But why shouldn’t I fuss about you? I have stayed 
here on purpose. You can’t think how inconvenient it is, 
Hal, for there’s Mother, she wants me for so many things. 
I am her eldest girl, you know; and, of course, she leans on 
me, and I am so proud — oh, so proud! Now, poor darling 
Mater, she’ll have to do without me for a whole week, for it 
will be impossible for her to come to meet us before that 
date.” 

“Then that’s all right,” said Hal. He jumped lightly 
up and down. 

Dorothy looked at him with increasing wonder. 

“Is it possible,” she said, “that you are glad — glad to 
stay?” 

“Yes, of course I am. I hate leaving Dering Towers.” 

“You like to stay now — now that Inez is mistress?” 

“Oh, Inez isn’t a bad sort. I say, Dolly, is there any- 
thing you want? Anything, I mean, that — I mean a 

[9°] 


THE ACCIDENT 


present, you know. If I were to give you a present, wouldn’t 
you be awfully delighted?” 

“I shouldn’t be delighted at all. You have got no money, 
and if you had, even a few pence, you ought to save your 
money for Mother. You forget that we are poor now — 
quite poor.” 

“I hate poor people,” said Hal in a discontented voice, 
kicking the gravel, as he spoke, with his toes. “There’s 
been a horrid fuss lately, and everything nice seems to be 
going away from us.” 

“There’s no use fretting, Hal. It’s God’s will, you know,” 
said Dorothy. “Oh, here comes the doctor. I am almost 
ashamed to think that he should come, for you seem nearly 
yourself.” 

“Yes, the pain has quite gone,” said Hal, and he followed 
Dorothy down the avenue, up which Dr. Andrews was seen 
approaching. 

The doctor, the family doctor, who had known Hal from 
his birth, was a good deal surprised at his speedy recovery. 
Again he looked carefully at the little boy, feeling him all 
over, and finally dismissing him with a light word. 

“Go and run about, my boy. And be careful what you 
eat. You must have been exceedingly greedy yesterday to 
cause such bad pain. You must be very careful to-day. 
Now what did you have for your breakfast, for you did have 
breakfast, of course?” 

“Oh, only — only nice things,” said Hal. 

“But what things?” 

“Well, fruit — peaches, and figs.” 

The doctor threw up his hands. 

“The very worst things you could possibly eat. With 
such pain as you had fruit would disagree with you tremen- 
dously. Who gave you that breakfast?” 

“My cousin Inez. She says they always breakfast like 
that in Dominica.” 

“Have you had any pain since?” 

t9i] 


A MADCAP 


“No, not a scrap.” 

“Extraordinary!” said the doctor. 

He looked so suspiciously at Hal that Hal’s little face be- 
came crimson. 

“Run and play, my boy. I’m glad you are better. 
Dorothy, he must be careful what he eats to-day. Really, 
he has made such a recovery that I am sorry I did not let 
him go with the rest of you.” 

“It was very inconvenient my staying,” said Dorothy, 
when Hal very unwillingly disappeared round the corner. 
“But what is the matter, Dr. Andrews? How queer you 
look.” 

“I don’t think anything is the matter,” he said after a 
pause, during which he was thinking hard. “Only, it 
strikes me, Miss Dorothy, that the little Spanish lady is up 
to mischief — I mean she could be.” 

“She certainly could; but how could she possibly have 
had anything to do with Hal’s illness?” 

“There’s no saying. My advice to you is to keep your 
eyes open. You and Hal can go to France as soon as ever 
your mother can arrange it. I will look in to-morrow, but 
the boy has practically recovered. I may as well tell you 
frankly, Miss Dorothy, that the pain without fever was 
extraordinary. In fact — but I won’t say any more.” 

The doctor went away, and Dorothy, feeling depressed 
and suspicious, walked up and down in front of the house 
until it was time to go in to lunch. There, indeed, she found 
a complete change. 

Tanta Marcia had taken her mother’s place at the head 
of the table. She was eating already, without waiting for 
the rest of the party. There was a strong smell of garlic 
pervading the room. The black woman stood behind her 
mistress’s chair, rolling her eyes, watchful, and evidently 
allowing nothing to escape her notice. Inez had changed 
the pretty English dress which she had worn for one gay 
as a rainbow. Her mourning for her mother she had dis- 

[92] 



“ He looked so suspiciously at Hal. 


















































































































THE ACCIDENT 


carded for the time being. She had a scarf of many colours 
round her waist, and coloured beads round her throat. She 
seemed to be in high spirits, and Hal was sitting nearly in 
her pocket. 

“Come along, Dorothy,” she said as soon as she saw her 
cousin. “I’ve kept the very nicest seat for you, just where 
you can see the garden. I am so glad you are here, even 
if it is only for a few days.” 

“I am extremely sorry to be here,” said Dorothy. “I 
don’t want to speak rudely, Inez, but really Hal doesn’t 
seem to be so very bad, and I ought to be with Mother, who 
wants me so much.” 

“Well, you are here, and I expect you’ll have to stay here, 
whether you like it or not, for the next few days. By the 
way, the new steward has arrived; I was talking to him a 
few minutes ago. He says that all the grass in front of this 
window must be ploughed up.” 

Dorothy’s face turned pale. She crumbled the bread 
she was trying to eat. It was with difficulty she could re- 
strain the angry words that crowded to her lips. Inez 
suddenly came up and touched her. 

“It hurts you for me to talk like that,” she said, with a 
complete change in her voice. 

“Yes, you know it, Inez.” 

“This pretty lawn shall not be touched, that is if you say 
so.” 

“You know, Inez, I have nothing to do with it.” 

“You have a great deal more to do with it than you have 
any idea of. It is you who have the real power. Jacobi 
needn’t stay. I don’t mind a bit what Tanta Marcia wants. 
I’ll keep your dear old Barnard, whom I think so stupid, and 
Jacobi can go back to Dominica. Barnard can stay. It 
rests with you.” 

“You bewilder me, you trouble me,” said Dorothy. 
“You know well that I have no power.” 

“You have every power.” 

[93] 


A MADCAP 


But now Hal took hold of his cousin’s arm. 

“We mustn’t be too late, you know,” he said. 

“Too late for what, Hal?” enquired Dorothy. 

“It’s only that Inez and I are going to Effingham — ” 

“Hush, hush!” said Inez. 

She bent towards the little boy and whispered in his ear. 
Then she said, looking at Dorothy: 

“Wouldn’t you like to see Barnard and Mrs. Barnard? 
They said they’d like to see you most awfully. They 
thought you had gone, and I did cheer them up so when I 
said you were still here. And I want to take Hal for a little 
drive, may I? Do you mind, Dolly? It shall be as you 
like, of course.” 

“I don’t mind,” said Dorothy. “Only Hal must be very 
careful what he eats to-day.” 

Hal had been making a very modest lunch of cold chicken, 
and Inez’s dancing eyes fixed themselves on his face. 

“I will go and see Barnard,” said Dorothy. 

With a sinking heart she rose and left the room. Presently 
she found herself outside the pretty little house which had 
belonged to the steward of the Dering Towers estate as long 
as Dorothy could remember anything. Robert Barnard 
was a most respectable and highly esteemed man. He fully 
understood the place, and was able to let the farms to the 
best advantage and to see to the culture of the land. He 
was an old man now, between sixty and seventy years of 
age, and had lost many of his children. Only one crippled 
daughter, and a little grandson, the child of his eldest son, 
who had died at sea, were left to keep him and his old wife 
company. 

Dorothy went up to the house and rang the bell. It was 
instantly opened by the little boy, whose name was Edward. 

“Oh, Miss Dorothy!” he said, a smile lighting up his 
whole face, “won’t granny and grand-dad be pleased! 
They didn’t know as you were here, only the Spanish lady 
told us, and then we didn’t believe her. 

[94] 


THE ACCIDENT 


“‘No, no,’ grand-dad said. ‘Dear Miss Dolly bade us 
good-bye, and she’s safe to have gone with the others.’ 

“And here you are, after all, Miss Dolly. I say, grand- 
dad, here’s Miss Dorothy.” 

Barnard now appeared in the passage. His white hair 
had never looked more silvery, nor his fine old face more 
grave and noble than when he came out and took the hand 
that Dorothy extended to him. 

“Come in, miss,” he said; “the wife will be delighted to 
see you. She’s been fretting all the morning, and no wonder.” 

He led Dorothy into a prettily furnished little room. 
Mrs. Barnard, who was very much more feeble than her 
husband, rose and advanced towards the little girl. 

“It’s you that are welcome as flowers in May, my dear,” 
she said. “And I said to Robert, ‘It can’t be true that Miss 
Dolly has stayed behind.’ But here you are, the Lord be 
praised!” 

“I’m so shocked I don’t know what to do,” said Dorothy, 
flinging herself at once into the heart of the subject on hand. 
“I often said, ‘It is a good thing that whatever happens 
Barnard will stay, for he knows the whole place, and won’t 
let it go to ruin.’” 

“Ah, dearie, that’s just what we thought,” said Mrs. 
Barnard, glancing with eyes of love at her old husband. 
“ Over and over we said it. Over and over we said — didn’t 
we, Robert ? — that darling Mrs. Dering — God above 
bless her! — had put in a word for us; for when the others 
went away helter-skelter, as though they were no more ’count 
than mice in harvest, there wasn’t a word said about my 
old man quitting. It was yesterday morning the blow fell, 
and who should come up and give it but the haughty young 
miss herself. She walked in just when we had finished 
breakfast, and she said — standing in front of us just where 
you are standing now, darling — she said: 

‘“You will go this day month, Mr. Barnard. That is, 
unless Miss Dorothy wishes you to stay. For I have got a 

[95] 


A MADCAP 


Spanish steward, and he has just arrived,’ says she. ‘And 
you will go,’ says she, ‘in a month, unless Miss Dolly wants 
you to stay.’” 

“ Of course I want you to stay,” said Dorothy. “I don’t 
understands what it means.” 

“Well, darling, no more do we; but she did put an ex- 
traordinary strength on the words, and she said : 

‘“I needn’t keep you more than a month, and then you’ll 
go.’ 

“And that would bring it towards autumn, dear, when 
there’s never such a run on stewards. And anyhow, my 
man couldn’t take a fresh situation; could you, Robert? 
Not at your age.” 

“It would go hard. I grant that it would go hard,” said 
poor Barnard. 

“It would about kill us,” said Mrs. Barnard. “Why, 
we love every stone of the place. And as to this house, 
didn’t I come here a bride, and didn’t I bury three of my 
children from this very house, and can’t I see their graves 
when I go to church on Sundays and pass through the 
churchyard? Ah, darling, it would kill me to go, so speak 
a good word for us, won’t you, Miss Dolly, my darling, 
won’t you, dear?” 

“I will certainly,” said Dorothy. 

“It isn’t only pure selfishness, miss,” said Barnard, seat- 
ing himself on a chair and drawing it forward. “It is for 
the good of the estate; for that man she has brought over, 
he don’t know anything about English land, and they say 
he’s terribly strict and cruel to those under him, having all 
the ways of the Spanish inquisition. That’s how I take it. 
Anyhow, it would be a fearful blow if we was to go, and not 
good for the estate at all, my dearie.” 

“I will do what I can. I will do my very utmost,” said 
Dorothy. “I was sad at having stayed behind,” she con- 
tinued, “but I did it on account of Hal, for Hal was very 
ill last night. Now perhaps it was meant that I should stay 

[96] 


THE ACCIDENT 

on account of you, Mr. Barnard, and on account of you, 
Mrs. Barnard.” 

“Eh! You’re the sweetest girl in the world. I said if it 
rested with you that it must be all right. But you’ll let us 
know soon, won’t you, dearie?” 

“I will, indeed I will. I’ll let you know to-morrow. I’ll 
talk to Inez to-night, and I’ll show her how silly it would be 
for you to go *— how she’d miss you every single hour of the 
day.” 

“Yes, dear; put it like that,” said Barnard, “for she ain’t 
unselfish, that little Spanish miss — not a bit of it. She 
won’t do it for love of old Barnard, but she may do it for love 
of herself. It’s that way you have to put it,” said the old 
man. 

“Oh, perhaps you are wrong,” said Dorothy a little un- 
easily. “Perhaps we are all hard on her.” 

“No, dear, we’re not,” said Barnard. “No one as had 
a soft heart would come in and fling a thunderbolt at a man’s 
head, to say nothing of a woman’s, as she did yesterday, 
and the only drop of consolation in her words was that we 
could stay if you wished it.” 

“Well, I’m very much puzzled,” said Dorothy, “but I’ll 
do my best.” 

She talked a little longer to the old pair, and then went 
slowly home. 

Already the whole place seemed changed. The nicest 
servants had left, and fresh servants had taken their places. 
As Dorothy approached the house the loud voice of the 
Spanish woman was distinctly heard. 

“What can be wrong now?” thought the child. And 
she hurried her footsteps. Tanta Marcia, accompanied by 
Carline, met her on the threshold. Tanta Marcia was 
throwing up her hands in despair, and Carline was weeping 
and running her fingers through her black curly locks. 
Poor Dorothy was quite unable to understand a single word 
they said. She felt nearly in despair, but finally she caught 

[97] 


A MADCAP 


the words “Inez,” “Hal,” and “Spitfire.” These were 
accompanied by frantic pointing of hands in the direction 
of the avenue. At last Dorothy began to be afraid that 
something dreadful had happened. Spitfire was really a 
dangerous pony. Mrs. Dering had long ago determined 
to sell him, but in the excitement of leaving Dering Towers 
had forgotten to carry out her intentions. Dorothy and 
David could both manage him, but even the grooms 
belonging to the stables often declared that he was far 
from safe. 

Now Inez knew little or nothing about driving. Was it 
possible that she had taken Hal out with Spitfire ? Dorothy 
began to run up the avenue. For a hundred yards or so 
Tanta Marcia accompanied her, her black mantilla floating 
in the breeze. But by and by the Spanish woman had to 
pause for want of breath, and Dorothy ran on alone. Soon 
she reached the gates, which were standing wide open, and 
saw before her the white, dusty road which led to Effingham, 
nearly six miles away. A fear, which grew stronger each 
moment, caused Dorothy’s heart to beat very fast. But 
she continued to run along the road. 

She had gone nearly a mile when she saw one of the stable 
men, a lad of the name of Simpson, who was walking back 
towards the house. Dorothy stopped to address him. 

“Simpson, is that you?” 

“Yes, Miss Dorothy.” 

The man touched his cap and came a little nearer. 

“Was it you who harnessed Spitfire to the governess cart 
for Miss Dering and Master Hal ? ” 

“Yes, miss,” said the man, colouring very much as he 
spoke. 

“But you knew perfectly well that Miss Dering could not 
drive.” 

“She said as I was to do it, Miss Dorothy.” 

Dorothy very nearly stamped her foot. 

“Simpson,” she said, “you knew better than that. You 

[98] 


THE ACCIDENT 


ought not to have done such a thing. What would you say 
if dear little Master Hal is brought home hurt — or — ” 

Dorothy’s lips trembled. 

“I couldn’t help it, miss. It was this way. She said if 
I didn’t do it, and if I dared to call anybody else, she’d dis- 
miss me on the spot. I couldn’t afford that, miss, for I has 
my mother depending on me for all she needs. I’m very 
sorry, but I couldn’t help it, miss.” 

“No, I see,” said Dorothy, altering her manner at once. 
“Go back home, Simpson. I won’t say any more.” 

“Bless her!” said the young man, as he went back to 
Dering Towers. “It went agen me, that it did, putting the 
young gent in danger; but what could I do?” 

Poor Dorothy continued her way, occasionally running, 
then stopping for want of breath, then running again. 

Half way between Effingham and Dering Towers was a 
toll gate, and as Dorothy approached she saw a crowd of 
people on the road. Her heart beat furiously. She ap- 
proached a little nearer, and then she beheld what caused 
that same heart almost to stop beating. For the governess 
cart was a mass of ruins, the shafts split up into hundreds of 
pieces, one wheel broken, the cushions scattered about on 
the road, and a girl lying full length on two of these same 
cushions, with blood pouring from a wound in her head. 
Hal was standing near, quite well, but white as a sheet. 
When he saw Dorothy he rushed towards her, took both 
her hands, and burst into tears. 

“Oh, Dolly, Dolly! Thank God you have come! Oh! 
we had such an awful time. Spitfire has bolted, we don’t 
know where he is. He smashed the governess cart and 
upset us both, and Inez fell on that heap of stones, and her 
head is cut and she doesn’t speak. Is she dead, Dolly?” 

“No,” answered Dorothy. “I don’t think she can be 
dead. Let me go to her.” 

She went up to her unconscious cousin and knelt down 
by her. A man came up and spoke. 

[99] 


L.ofC. 


A MADCAP 


“Spitfire ain’t safe for anybody to drive, miss,” he said. 
“He was straining at his bit like anything when Missie got 
him up to the toll gate. He would have got through with- 
out accident, but Missie struck him with the whip, and, you 
know, he never could abide that, so he reared right up, and 
nearly went back on his haunches. He broke the traces, 
and then turned the cart over, and away he went, slick over 
the toll gate, and on to the road; and the last we saw 
of him was acrosst them fields yonder. They’re trying 
to catch him, for he’ll be over the quarry at the further 
end if they don’t, or I’m much mistaken. He ain’t a 
safe horse, miss.” 

But Dorothy hardly replied. She was still kneeling close 
to Inez. Now, putting out her hand, she swept back the 
girl’s long black hair from her forehead. 

“Get me some water,” she said. 

It was brought, and then Dorothy washed the blood from 
a wound at one side of her cousin’s head, while she trem- 
blingly awaited the arrival of Dr. Andrews. He had been 
sent for, and arrived on the scene about ten minutes after 
Dorothy. 

He examined Inez very carefully, said that she was suffer- 
ing from slight concussion of the brain, but that he did not 
think it was dangerous. She must be kept very quiet, how- 
ever, and could not possibly be moved to Dering Towers 
that night. The toll-keeper had a room in his cottage which 
he immediately placed at the young lady’s disposal. Inez 
was then conveyed to the little house and laid on a clean 
bed. The doctor said that she would sleep, and that he would 
come again in a few hours’ time to see her. And Dorothy 
arranged to stay with her cousin. 

When the doctor left the room it was to find Hal sitting 
on a little bench in the sunshine. His face was white and 
scared, and his eyes had a puzzled look in them. But he 
was trying to amuse himself by counting his five sovereigns, 
which he had taken out of his trousers pockets. 

[ioo] 


THE ACCIDENT 

“Wherever did you get all that wealth, my man?” said 
Dr. Andrews. 

Hal coloured, then turned pale. 

“It’s all mine,” he said sturdily. 

“Yes, my boy, so it seems. Still, I am curious. I should 
like to know where you got it.” 

“Inez gave it to me.” 

Hal covered the gold with one hand as he spoke, and 
looked up defiantly at the doctor. 

Dr. Andrews laid his hand on the boy’s head. 

“You needn’t be afraid of me, Hal. I have known you 
since you were a baby, and I have always been fond of you, 
as I am of all your brothers and sisters. I don’t think you 
are quite honest about that money. I am sorry to have to 
say it, but I don’t. Why should your cousin have given you 
so much gold ? The fact is this, Hal, I should be very sorry 
to see you do anything mean or shabby, anything your good 
father would disapprove of if he could come back and see 
you. Why, what is the matter, my boy?” 

“Only that I don’t want you to talk in that preachifying 
sort of way. I did get the money given to me. I didn’t 
steal it.” 

“I won’t say any more after you have answered me one 
question.” 

“Please, I don’t want to answer anything.” 

“Well, I will put the question whether you like to answer 
it or not. Was that illness of yours real or pretended, last 
night?” 

“I won’t tell you! I won’t,” said Hal. 

He started up in a great fright, and then he sat down 
again. Then he fixed his frightened eyes on the doctor’s 
face, and then he burst into tears. 

“I can’t help it,” he said. “It was she — she planned 
it. Oh, I hated to do it.” 

“You got five sovereigns for doing it? I understand,” 
said the doctor. “I am a little bit ashamed of you, old 
[ioi] 


A MADCAP 


man, but I won’t question you until to-morrow. To- 
morrow I should like you to come and make a clean breast 
of it to me, for you have got into bad' company, Hal, my 
boy. If your father were alive now it would go hard with 
him to know that a son of his had done what you have done, 
Harry — taking money to do a mean thing, a deceitful thing, 
and making your mother miserable; and you took money 
to do it. I am ashamed of you, my son!” 

The doctor strode away, and Hal, miserable as a little 
boy could be, sat alone in the toll -keeper’s box. 

By and by, notwithstanding the sad accident, other car- 
riages came up. The tolls had to be paid, and Mrs. Dawson 
— for her husband was still away — came out and took the 
money. She noticed how white Hal looked, and she also 
perceived that five golden sovereigns lay on the sill of the 
window. 

“Sakes!” she cried. “Wherever did you get them, young 
man ? ” 

“They’re mine,” said Hal sullenly. 

“Then put them into your pocket, sir, and come along in 
and drink your tea. I’ve got some for you and Miss 
Dorothy, bless her! You do look pinched, Master Hal. 
I doubt me you were a bit hurt yourself when the pony cart 
upset.” 

“No, I wasn’t. And I’ll put my money into my pocket, 
and come and have tea with you. I’m very hungry, and I’d 
like tea awfully, if only you will promise to say nothing at 
all to Dorothy about the money that is in my pocket.” 

“Tut!” said Mrs. Dawson. “’Tain’t no affair of mine, 
though how you come by it, and your mother that poor and 
deprived of all her lawful possessions, beats me. I hope you 
ain’t a cunning little boy that takes money what you oughtn’t 
to. But ’tain’t no affair of mine. So come along now and 
have your tea.” 


[ 102 ] 


CHAPTER XI 
“/ think my heart will break ” 

The next day Inez was sufficiently recovered to be re- 
moved to Dering Towers. Here her aunt met her in a state 
of great excitement. She scarcely enquired for the health 
of her niece, but told her the somewhat startling news 
that she herself would be obliged to leave Dering Towers 
immediately. Her son, her only son F ernandez, had come sud- 
denly to England. He wanted to see her in London. He also 
wanted her to go back with him to Dominica. She could not 
tell yet what she would do, but she was going to London im- 
mediately with Carline, and would write to Inez from there. 

“To tell the truth,” she said, in her rapid Spanish, “I am 
glad to go. I hate this cold, ugly English place.” 

When she was gone, Inez, who had been taken at once to 
her little white bed, began to laugh excitedly. 

“I am so glad,” she said to Dorothy. “I can’t help it. 
I hope she won’t come back, for I don’t really love her. I 
thought I loved her when my dear mamma died, but I don’t 
love her now. I don’t love anyone but you, Dolly, and per- 
haps Dave a little.” 

“But you often told me, when first I knew you, that you 
loved your Aunt Marcia.” 

“I thought so, but now I dislike her. I suppose that is 
because I have met nicer people — you and your mother, 
your dear, gentle mother. I’d love you all if you’d let me. 
Why shouldn’t I love you? You are my cousins.” 

“Of course you can love us. I hope you will,” said 
Dorothy; but she spoke restlessly. 

“How funny you are, Dolly! Why do you turn your 
eyes away? Do you quite hate me?” 

[ I0 3 ] 


A MADCAP 


“No, Inez; I don’t hate anyone.” 

Inez stirred on her bed. 

“You were very good to me yesterday,” she said. “You 
nursed me in such a soft, gentle sort of way. You made 
my headache go. I love you better each minute. It is 
very strange, for I can plainly see that you don’t care a bit 
for me. You think it wrong to hate; but if you didn’t think 
it wrong you would hate me.” 

“No, you are mistaken. I should never hate you.” 

Inez sighed. 

“What a great big house this is,” she said. “I don’t 
think I like big houses. Tanta is gone. She is certain not 
to return. The only person Tanta loves is Fernandez. 
Well, he doesn’t interest me, nor does she, much. I hope 
she’ll go back to Dominica, then you’ll all be so sorry for 
me. You’ll think of Inez, who doesn’t understand your 
English ways and your customs, living here all by herself. 
You will be sorry when you’re gone. I know you will.” 

“Someone will be found to live with you, of course, Inez. 
Why shouldn’t I go to my own mother and my own brothers 
and sisters? You can’t expect me to do anything else. 
My mother misses me dreadfully.” 

“But not nearly so much as I shall miss you when you 
g°.” 

“Well, I can’t stay,” said Dorothy. And she got up 
and went to one of the windows. 

Inez looked at her for a minute. Presently she began to 
sob. Her tears flowed fast. 

“I won’t stay here alone! I hate this place, and those 
English servants who don’t care for me, and who are always 
thinking about you all the time. You say someone will 
come and look after me; but I don’t want a stranger. I 
want — I want my own people. Don’t you think you are 
very unkind to leave me?” 

“It is impossible for me to stay,” answered Dorothy. 
“I am here now owing to Hal’s illness. I am only here 
[104] 


“J THINK MY HEART WILL BREAK” 


for a few days. Don’t let us talk of unpleasant things until 
you are quite well. You will get back your headache if 
you cry so hard. I will ring the bell now and order tea.” 

Dorothy went up to the bed. She straightened the bed- 
clothes and put an extra pillow under Inez’s head, then she 
bent down and pressed a light kiss on the little girl’s fore- 
head. As she did so a pair of arms were flung round her 
neck and a kiss of passion and fervour was pressed upon 
her cheek, and Inez said: 

“You could make me good. Why do you go?” 

“I must go,” answered Dorothy. 

A servant appeared with tea Dorothy poured it out 
and helped her cousin. Inez’s very changeable nature 
soon made itself felt. She ceased to cry, she sat up in her 
bed and began to eat heartily. 

As she was doing so there came another tap at the door, 
and the same servant who had brought in the tea appeared. 
The Spanish steward, Jacobi by name, wished to see Inez. 

“I can’t see him now,” answered Inez at once. “Tell 
him so. I will talk with him in the morning.” 

The maid withdrew. Inez stretched out her hand to 
Dorothy. 

“You don’t want me to have Jacobi here? ” 

“I can’t say I do. I want you to keep Barnard here. 
He knows the place and the farms. He would manage 
everything for you. He is an Englishman, and knows our 
English ways. The Spanish steward wouldn’t know the 
right crops, nor the sort of weather we have. For your own 
sake you ought to keep Barnard.” 

“And it would be cruel to send him away,” said Inez, an 
eager expression coming into her eyes. “You, for instance, 
Dorothy, wouldn’t like the place to be ruined, as you call it.” 

“It isn’t our place any longer.” 

“But you would like it to be kept as your father used to 
have it, now wouldn’t you?” 

“Don’t speak of Father, Inez.” 

[ i°5] 


A MADCAP 


“But I must for a minute, for this is so important. You 
know you would all love to have Dering Towers kept as it 
used to be.” 

“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy; “but then, people 
can’t always get what they want.” 

“Still, you know it would be good for me to have this 
Barnard of yours.” 

“That is quite true.” 

In spite of herself Dorothy allowed the eagerness and 
interest she felt to get into her voice. 

“It would be doing me a very great favour,” she said at 
last, “if you were to keep Barnard.” 

“Well,” said Inez, “you know I don’t like him. He’s 
too proud, and he thinks too much of himself for me. 
Spanish girls like me are not accustomed to men in Barnard’s 
position giving themselves airs. He’s like that Fisher of 
yours, that gardener, with his horrid airs. I crushed 
Fisher.” 

“Oh, you did, indeed.” 

“And I would crush Barnard too, if I could. Now 
Jacobi, he’s quite different. He’d bow down to me — he’d 
eat the dust I trod on if I asked him to, and he’d make 
everybody else bow down to him. He’s the sort of overseer 
we have in Dominica. He’d make all your lazy folks fly 
round, I can tell you. He’d allow no idleness. He wouldn’t 
do things in your English way, but he’d do them in our 
Spanish way, and they’d all obey him — oh, wouldn’t they 
just 1 And he would obey me. You see how useful he’d be; 
and he’s known me ever since I was a very small child. He’s 
an awful brute sometimes, and he would beat some of the 
people if they didn’t obey him; but he suits me. Now 
Barnard doesn’t suit me a bit.” 

Dorothy was silent, her hands were shaking. She put 
down the piece of work she had been trying to get on with, 
then she turned her head so as to not see Inez’s face. But 
Inez could see that Dorothy was greatly moved. She could 
[ 106 ] 


“/ THINK MY HEART WILL BREAK ” 

see quite well that her cousin was in trouble; in fact, she was 
holding herself in for all she was worth. 

“Dolly,” said Inez’s voice. It sounded quite pleading 
and gentle. “You have got to understand my point of 
view.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Dorothy. 

“Perhaps you do understand it.” 

“A little. Shall I go down now and take Hal for a walk ? 
It isn’t good for him to be by himself all day.” 

“Leave Hal alone for the time. I haven’t done what 
I want to say.” 

“Very well, only be quick, Inez.” 

“I talked to Jacobi yesterday, before I took Hal out with 
Spitfire; and after I had talked to him I went to see your 
dear Barnard, and I told him that he would have to leave in 
a month, and that no one could keep him but you.” 

“I know you did. He told me, and I can’t understand 
what you meant by it.” 

• “I am coming to that soon. Jacobi and I had a long 
conversation, and he proposes that all the lawns shall be 
turned into fields, for he says we shall want lots and lots of 
money to carry out his ideas; and you can’t think how sen- 
sibly he talked. Certainly his ideas are not pretty. There 
won’t be any flower gardens at Dering Towers, but there 
will be rows and rows of raspberry canes, and a great num- 
ber of strawberry beds, and rows and rows of trees, cherries, 
and apples, and plum trees. And we will make a great har- 
vest by our fruit. As to flowers, we won’t bother about them. 
Jacobi said that he would take fifteen per cent. — if you 
know what that means — of all the profits, and that would 
greatly make up his wages. Isn’t it clever of him to think 
of that! It will keep him working hard, and he will keep 
every one else working hard too. He says it is silly to lay 
out the ground in such a precious country as England only 
just on pure pleasure, and I quite agree with him. Yes, 

I agree with him.” 


[ i°7] 


A MADCAP 


.“Well,” said Dorothy, her face crimson, her eyes flash- 
ing fire, “all I can say about your Spanish overseer is this — 
that he doesn’t know what an English gentleman’s place is 
like. Why, if you do this, Inez, if you really do this, no one 
will come to see you, and Dering Towers will be disgraced 
— yes, disgraced.” 

Inez burst out laughing. 

.“Ah!” she said, “I thought I’d touch you. And do you 
think your mother would like it?” 

“Mother must never be told — never, never!” 

“And David? How would David like it?” 

“I won’t tell Dave, either. Oh, Inez, you make me sick! 
I must go out at once.” 

“Now listen, Dolly, you can stop all this.” 

“Nonsense!” 

“You can. I will send Jacobi away, back to Dominica. 
He’d like to go. He’s very sorry to be here. He thinks 
he’ll have rheumatism in your cold, damp England, and I’ll 
keep Barnard, and Barnard shall do as he likes, and as you 
like. And you shall order the way the lawns are to be kept 
and the flower gardens kept up, if only you will stay with 
me, Dorothy. It rests with you, Dolly. If you stay this 
place shall be kept lovely, and Barnard shall stay. But if 
you go, why, Barnard goes too, and Jacobi becomes my 
steward.” 

Dorothy’s face turned very white. 

“You have no right to speak to me like that,” was her 
answer. 

“But you will stay, Dolly. Don’t mind whether I am 
wrong or right, only do what I wish.” 

Dorothy rose to her feet. 

“I am tired; I must go out and get the air,” she said. 

She left the room. Her head was aching, her eyes seemed 
to swim. 

“I couldn’t love a girl of that sort,” she said to herself. 
“No, even for Barnard, I can’t stay away from Mother 
[ i°8] 



“ ‘ You have no right to speak to me like that.’ ” 


(p. 108) 





“/ THINK MY HEART WILL BREAK” 

and the others. Oh, I long to do what is right, but this 
can’t be right.” 

“Dolly, is that you?” called Hal’s voice. 

It was a little, piping, gentle voice, and it went straight to 
Dorothy’s heart. 

“I was coming out to you, Hal.” 

“I am so lonely without the others,” said Hal. “And 
you — you look cross and not as you used to look. And 
Dreadless, he doesn’t seem to love me now. Oh, Dolly, 
the place is so changed, and there’s that Spanish man walking 
about the place and making faces. I’m afraid of him.” 

“Come with me into the little old schoolroom, Hal, 
where we used to be so happy.” 

“I don’t want to go there. It will a-mind me, and I don’t 
want to be a-minded of things now, Dolly.” 

“Nevertheless, I think we will go just for a minute, for I 
have something to say to you.” 

“I don’t like being here,” said Hal, when the entered 
the shabby little room. “I want to go to Mother. I’m 
quite well now.” 

“Hal, dear, let us think for a minute or two of the old, old 
days. When Father came home from foreign countries he 
used to open the presents in this room.” 

“ Yes,” said Hal, “I a-member. And he brought me — ” 

“We needn’t talk about that, Hal; but you remember his 
face, his kind face.” 

“Yes, his very kind face,” said Hal. He looked piteously 
at his sister. 

“He was very fond of you, little Hal. He would never 
have liked you to do anything mean or shabby, or to tell a 
lie.” 

“Is he angry up in heaven ?” said Hal. 

“No, for the good people up in heaven cannot be angry. 
But still, he is surprised, and perhaps, I cannot say, even a 
little hurt.” 

“I wouldn’t like to hurt him.” 

[ io 9 ] 


A MADCAP 


“He used to say,” continued Dorothy — “he used often 
to say, ‘Boys and girls, duty is first. Duty is best. Some- 
times she is stern and takes you into places you don’t like; 
but still she is best. She is the only one to follow.’ What 
is the matter, Hal? How queer you look!” 

Hal’s face was strangely white, and his little lips were 
trembling. Suddenly he dived his hand into his trousers 
pocket, and from out of that pocket he drew five sovereigns. 
These he laid on the table by Dorothy’s side. 

“They’re so heavy, and I hate them,” he said. “All day 
long I was pretending that I loved them. I took them with 
me and put them on the ground near Dreadless, and Dread- 
less, he wouldn’t even sniff at ’em. He just sat up so tall on 
his haunches, and looked full at me. He wouldn’t look at 
them. And when I put them into my pocket I couldn’t 
run, nor play, nor nothing, because they were so heavy. 
Isn’t money real horrid, Dolly ? — I mean, isn’t it some- 
times?” 

“It’s the worst thing in all the world, sometimes, Hal,” 
said Dorothy. “But, Hal, you surprise me. How did you 
get that money?” 

“From her. She — she gave it to me.” 

“Inez?” 

“Yes. She gave me five sovereigns.” 

“What for?” 

“You won’t be very angry, Dolly, if I tell you?” 

“Of course not. I want to know. I thought there was 
something strange.” 

“Well, she gave them to me to make — ” 

“Yes?” 

“To make the pain come.” 

“Now, Hal, you do bewilder me. What are you talking 
about ? ” 

“To make it come. I wasn’t to eat anything, and I was 
to double up with pain, and the doctor was to be fetched, 
and I wasn’t to go away. It was because she wanted you to 
[no] 


“I THINK MY HEART WILL BREAK” 


stay, and she gave me the money to stay, and she said I 
could buy another dog like Dreadless; and — oh! I know 
you will be angry. I know you are.” 

“You did this really — and because she made you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You deceived Mother because she made you?” 

“Don’t look at me like that, Dorothy.” 

“I won’t look at you at all, Hal, for I’m not speaking to 
you at present. Oh, she’s the girl who wants me to give up 
Mother and all the rest, and to stay with her! Oh! I am 
glad you have told me — I did think I would do it — to 
help others. But no, not that. I am glad you have told 
me. Let me go now, for I think my heart will break.” 


[mi 


CHAPTER XII 

Mr. Brewster Brings News 

Poor Dorothy only spoke the truth when she said that 
her heart was breaking. She left the house and went down 
one of the shady walks. There, the first person she met was 
old Barnard. 

“Miss Dorothy,” he said, “I thought perhaps you’d have 
a message to send me last night, but it didn’t come. The 
wife, miss, she’s fretting a good bit. It isn’t for myself, 
miss, that I mind, but the wife; she’s past seventy, and she 
says to me ; 

“‘I could never leave the house you brought me to when 
we was wedded. It would kill me.’” 

Dorothy raised her blue eyes and fixed them on Barnard’s 
face. 

“She spoke the truth, miss,” continued the old man. 
“Most likely it’ll kill her.” 

“But can you not keep the house? Must the house go 
as well as the stewardship?” 

“The Spaniard is to have it, miss, so I’m told. When 
the wife heard that she burst into tears. Whatever is to be 
done ? ” 

Dorothy was silent for a few minutes, then she said slowly: 

“I have known you since I was a baby, and you have 
known me. I will tell you the truth now. I can save you.” 

“How, miss? You said so yesterday. But how?” 

“I can save you and your wife, Barnard, and you shall 
tell me what I ought to do.” 

“Truly, miss, I will try to tell you the truth as I see it, 
so help me heaven!” 

“Well, it is this,” said Dorothy. “If I stay, you may 

[ ii2 i 


MR. BREWSTER BRINGS NEWS 


stay. Inez says so. She wants me to stay with her, and if 
I do stay she will have the place kept as it is now, and the 
Spaniard shall return to his own country, and you shall stay 
and be steward just the same as ever. That is how she puts 
it. ,, 

“I guessed somehow it was that way, miss,” said Barnard. 
“ I said to the wife that it was certain sure the young miss 
would want one of ’em.” 

“‘And that one will be Miss Dorothy,’ said the wife. 
‘It’s sure to be Miss Dorothy,’ she said, ‘for she’s so good 
and sensible.’” 

“Yes, I’m the one she wants now,” said Dorothy. 
“Once it was Suzette, but now she wants me. If I yield, 
and ask Mother to let me stay, it will be all right for you and 
for the place.” 

“Yes, miss; it will be all right for me, and for the place, 
and for the old woman.” 

Barnard’s own face was quite flushed in its eagerness. 
He turned eyes full of longing and sorrow at Dorothy. 

“I take it, miss, you don’t want to stay.” 

“I hate the very thought! Can’t you understand?” 

“Perhaps I can, a bit.” 

“But you want me to stay, Barnard.” 

“Selfishly speaking, miss, that is so.” 

“Now I have told you so much I must tell you more. 
Do you know what she did to make me stop ? She bribed 
Hal, our little Hal, to pretend to be ill. She gave him five 
sovereigns to pretend to have that awful pain, and he did 
pretend. He deceived Mother and even the doctor. Do 
you think it is worth while to stay behind to save a girl of 
that sort?” 

“That’s bad! That’s very bad!” said Barnard in a re- 
flective voice. “You don’t think she’s worth saving. But 
there, I take it you are wrong, miss. I suppose there’s no 
one who isn’t worth that. She ain’t a very straight young 
lady, and she did a shabby thing by Fisher — as shabby a 

[113] 


A MADCAP 


thing as ever I heard tell on. But at the same time, she’s 
young, and she’s never been taught our English ways. And 
she’s the daughter of our bonny Mr. Clement. Ah! well 
do I remember him and his ways and his face. I can’t help 
being a bit sorry for her, miss. But I won’t add any more, 
for it’s all for my own advantage that you should stay, and 
all agen me that you should go.” 

Dorothy then said a few more words to the old man, who 
then returned to his cottage. His wife was waiting for him 
in the porch. 

“Ah, Hannah! ” he said when he saw her, “we must make 
up our minds to quit, for the only way we can stay is for Miss 
Dorothy to stay. And Miss Dorothy, bless her heart! just 
can’t. It’s bitter hard she takes it, for her heart is just 
bound up with her mother and Mr. David, and the rest of 
’em. I can’t ask her to stay — ’tain’t to be expected.” 

Then Mrs. Barnard went back into the house. She did 
not ask any more questions, she sat down in her armchair, 
and presently she said it was cold, although it was a lovely 
summer’s day. And her old husband lit a fire for her him- 
self and rubbed her cold hands, and then she said : 

“Maybe I won’t be long here, and that’s what I’d like 
best.” 

Altogether they were a very sad pair, and while they sat 
together, Jacobi, the Spanish steward, passed their little 
house and looked in at them and scowled. 

But while all things were apparently against Barnard and 
his wife, while Mrs. Dering was wondering, far away, in 
the new house near Dieppe, how soon Dorothy and Hal 
would be coming to join their party, and how Hal really 
was to-day, things were happening which were to upset the 
plans of everyone. 

While Dorothy paced up and down in front of the house, 
and Inez lay on her bed in her room and cried softly to her- 
self because 6 she was so lonely, and because, notwithstand- 
ing her last interview, she wanted her cousin Dorothy so 

[” 4 ] 


MR. BREWSTER BRINGS NEWS 

badly, and while Hal felt that in all the world he hated a cer- 
tain row of sovereigns the most, there came sounds of wheels 
on the gravel outside, and Mr. Brewster suddenly jumped 
off a dog cart at sight of Dorothy, and came to meet her. 

“Now, my dear Dorothy,” he said, “if you are not the 
very person I want to see! Your mother has gone, has she 
not?” 

“Yes,” said Dorothy, raising her pale face to his. “She 
went yesterday, Mr. Brewster ” 

“And you have stayed behind. I am very glad to hear 
it. Quite right, too. That poor little heiress ought not to 
be left ail by herself.” 

“I don’t see that I have anything special to do with her,” 
said Dorothy. 

“Oh, Miss Doll, I don’t think that is at all the case. We 
all have something to do for our fellow-creatures, and it strikes 
me you have a vast lot to do with Inez Dering. I wish your 
mother were here, but as she is not I must have a little chat 
with you.” 

Dorothy felt her heart growing cold. She longed to say : 

“If you have come to side against me, and to make me do 
what I don’t wish to do, I may as well let you know at once 
that I won’t yield my wishes to anyone. I won’t stay with 
Inez, and I will go to Mother.” 

These were the thoughts in that heart of Dorothy’s, which 
as a rule beat so calmly in her breast, that very steadfast 
heart which had never yet been racked by any serious doubts 
or any serious cares. 

The lawyer looked at her and then he said: 

“Dorothy, you remind me very much of your father. 
How like him you are in appearance, dear!” 

“Mother has sometimes said so, Mr. Brewster. I am 
so glad.” 

“And I fancy,” continued the lawyer, “that you are 
something like him also in character.” 

“I don’t think I am.” 


A MADCAP 


“His character, as I take it,” continued Mr. Brewster — 
“and I think few people knew him better than I did — was 
the sort that put others before himself.” 

“Now it is coming,” thought Dorothy, “but I won’t yield 
— I won’t.” 

“An extraordinary thing has just happened,” continued 
Mr. Brewster, “and it makes it necessary to change several 
of our plans.” 

“What do you mean ? Is Inez not the heiress after all ?” 

“She must be that, my dear, as she is the child of your 
father’s elder brother. But now, listen. Your uncle left a 
will when he was dying, and that will has only just been 
found. I came across it yesterday in sorting the different 
papers that Inez brought over. Immediately after reading 
it, who should come in but Donna Feranzi. She said that 
she was going back to Dominica, that her own estate was in 
danger, in fact, that an insurrection was likely to take place 
amongst her black servants. She wished, therefore, to have 
nothing further to say to Inez, whom she considered a 
troublesome and ungrateful girl; in short, that she was going 
back by the very next boat, and her son was going with her.” 

“Now there is no escape at all,” thought poor Dorothy. 
“And yet, I think — I think — I won’t yield!” 

“Well, my dear Dorothy, as I said, I was reading your 
uncle’s will, when the woman, whom I did not at all fancy, 
came and interrupted me. After she had gone I read it 
once more. The contents of that will make a great deal of 
difference.” 

“I don’t know much about wills,” said Dorothy. “What 
was in it?” 

“Well, you see, he left his infant child to the guardian- 
ship of his brother, and in case of his brother’s death, to 
your father’s wife, your own dear mother. He left Inez to 
your mother’s care in such a very special manner, and with 
such solemn words, that she is not likely to refuse the trust 
confided to her. Your poor uncle thought, of course, that 
[ ix6 ] 


MR. BREWSTER BRINGS NEWS 


his will and other papers would be sent at once to England 
on his death. But I discovered, from a sort of diary which 
the late Mrs. Dering kept, that she was devoured with 
jealousy of his English relations, and meant to keep her 
child to herself. She was not impressed with the idea of 
Inez being a rich girl, and meant to bring her up as a Spanish 
girl in the West Indies. She therefore kept the will hidden 
amongst some other papers of your uncle’s, but was afraid 
to destroy it. When she was dying she remembered the 
promise that she had made to her husband, and told Inez 
who she really was, but still she did not mention the will. 
Hence the arrival of Inez in England, with her aunt, and 
the discovery that she was your uncle’s only child, and the 
real owner of Dering Towers. But what was not discovered 
until yesterday, was the fact that your mother is her guar- 
dian, and Donna Feranzi can never have anything whatever 
to do with bringing her up.” 

“Yes,” said Dorothy, speaking in a sullen tone; “and I 
am sorry to hear it.” 

“Why should you be sorry? It puts your mother into a 
much better position. Now, one of two things must be 
done. Either you all return to Dering Towers at once, or 
Inez goes to you and to your mother’s care to France. I 
am going to France to-morrow to see your mother on the 
subject.” 

Mr. Brewster talked for a little longer to Dorothy, and 
when he left she went and sat in the rose bower, where she 
and David had talked when the news first reached them that 
they were poor, not rich, and quite ordinary people, instead 
of the owners of Dering Towers. 

She sat there for some little time. A strange feeling had 
taken possession of her. Mr. Brewster’s news seemed to 
alter everything. She had longed for her mother as she 
had never longed for her before. 

“I didn’t wish for Inez,” she said to herself. “I longed, 
beyond anything, to get away from her. I felt that she did 
[ 1 * 7 ] 


A MADCAP 


not suit me, that I could never be a real friend to her, and 
now all of a sudden God seems to wish me to be with her. 
She is not to be taken .away from us ; somehow, somewhere, 
we are to be together. ” 

As she thought these things she heard a step on the gravel 
outside, and the next minute who should appear in view 
but old Mrs. Barnard herself. Mrs. Barnard was leaning 
very heavily on a stick. Dorothy had always been fond of 
her, and she ran out now to meet her. 

“It is nice to see you. Won’t you come and sit in the 
rose bower with me ? It is warm here, for the sun is shining 
on the roof. You look so cold and stiff. Is the rheuma- 
tism very bad to-day?” 

“Ah, my dear, I ache like anything. But then, the old 
must suffer, and there’s no right in my complaining. I was 
just coming along to have a chat with you, Miss Dolly. I 
felt I must find you, dear, and speak out my mind. May 
I have a chat with you here, my darling ? ” 

“I should like it,” said Dorothy. 

Mrs. Barnard followed Dorothy into the bower, and they 
sat down side by side. The old woman laid her hand on 
that of the young girl. 

“Miss Dolly, I have come to say, from Barnard and from 
me, that we don’t wish you to do anything wrong, or against 
your mind, in order to help us. Barnard, he come to me a 
short time back, and he said that he had never seen a more 
pitiful face than yours; and he thought it was very hard for 
us, miss, to force you to do what maybe you felt you couldn’t 
do. For I know, miss, if you were to stay here we’d stay 
too, and if you go we are to go. Well, Miss Dolly, let us both 
go. It is best, and we hasn’t a word of complaint to make.” 

Before Dorothy could reply she heard a sound which 
caused her to spring to her feet and rush to the entrance 
of the little bower. Then she saw, coming to meet her, her 
hand resting on Hal’s shoulder, her face white but with a 
curious exalted expression on it, her cousin Inez. 

[118] 


MR. BREWSTER BRINGS NEWS 

“Where is she, Hal? I must find her. Can you guess 
where she is?” 

“She often comes to the rose bower,” said Hal. And 
then they both saw Dolly herself, and Inez left Hal and ran 
to meet her. 

“ Dolly, I have come. I have thought it all out. I can’t 
go on any longer. I can’t do it. You may go back to your 
mother, Dolly. You may go, and you may take Hal, and I 
will stay behind, and Barnard shall stay too. Mr. and Mrs. 
Barnard shall both stay, and I will try not to mind. I can’t 
keep you against your will, Dolly, I can’t. I have come to 
say it. Don’t tempt me to change my mind, but take me 
at my word now. I am going straight to find Jacobi, and 
he shall leave the place to-night, and Mr. Barnard shall stay. 
And oh ! Dolly, things shan’t be changed here. The gardens, 
and the conservatories, and the greenhouses, and the house 
itself shall be kept as nice as ever. No, I can’t stand it; I 
can’t stand the look on your face, Dolly.” 

“Do you really mean this?” said Dorothy. 

She was so surprised, so stunned almost, by Inez’s change 
of manner, and change of thought, that she forgot just for a 
minute that things themselves, that circumstances had also 
changed. She forgot everything in a great and wonderful 
joy that filled her heart. 

“Do you mean it?” she said, looking at her cousin. 

“Yes. And why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Because, all of a sudden, I find that I love you,” said 
Dorothy. 

Then Inez gave a cry which was at once both bitter and 
glad, and she flung her arms tightly round Dorothy’s neck 
and kissed her many times. 

“And here is Mrs. Barnard,” said Dorothy. “She’s very 
sad, but she is also brave, and you shall tell her yourself.” 

Then Inez entered the bower, and she took Mrs. Barnard’s 
hand, and she looked at her and said slowly: 

“Try to like me. Won’t you forget that I am half a 

[ IJ 9] 


A MADCAP 

Spanish girl as well as English? Tell Barnard that he is to 
stay.” 

“Bless you! Bless you!” said Mrs. Barnard. 

She had a great deal of tact, this old woman, and she took 
up her stick now, and after giving a glance of the purest love 
at Dorothy, and another of the purest kindness at Inez, she 
left the bower and hurried back to her home. 

“But it is very bad for you to be out,” said Dorothy then. 
“You were told to keep quiet.” 

“Quiet — I can’t keep quiet any longer,” said Inez. “I 
feel quite well and wonderfully happy. Although I know 
you are going away, I am most wonderfully happy.” 

“We always feel like that when we deny ourselves,” said 
Dorothy. “Father explained it to us once. Inez, shall 
we go up to the picture gallery now and look at your father’s 
picture — the picture of the angel face ? And when we are 
there may I tell you something? For things have happened, 
and I have something to say.” 

“May I come too?” said Hal, coming forward at that mo- 
ment, “ for I really am sorry, and so is Inez. Mayn’t we all go ?” 

“Yes, we will all go,” said Dorothy, giving him her hand. 

They walked slowly, for Inez was not nearly as strong as 
she fancied herself to be, and by and by they reached the 
picture gallery, and they placed themselves on the ottoman, 
under the angel face. It seemed, somehow, to be more full 
of sunshine than ever at that moment. The lips were smil- 
ing and the eyes were clear and bright and blue. 

“I expect if he were alive he would tell me to forget my- 
self,” said Inez. 

“He would, he would,” said Dorothy. “ Father has often told 
me about him, his goodness, his sweetness, his unselfishness.” 

“It hurts me, and yet it makes me glad to look at him,” 
said Inez. “But Dolly, you have something to say.” 

“I have, and it is so wonderful. What do you think has 
happened?” 

“Please tell me.” 


t i2 °i 


MR. BREWSTER BRINGS NEWS 


Hal threw himself at the feet of the two little girls, and 
looked up into their faces. Dorothy flung her arm round 
Inez and drew her close to her. 

“It is so amazing,” she said, “and I think, somehow, you 
will be glad. Mr. Brewster, our lawyer, and yours, has 
just paid a visit to Dering Towers, and what do you think he 
has found ? ” 

“What?” 

“A will, amongst your mother’s papers, her letters, and 
the different things she left behind her.” 

“I know,” said Inez. “I put them with my own hands 
into a tin box, and locked the box with a padlock.” 

“Well, Mr. Brewster opened it, and found amongst the 
letters a will. Do you know what a will is?” 

“ Of course. It is what people write before they die, when 
they want to leave money to someone.” 

“The will was old, quite old, and it was written by your 
father before he died ; and your mother — well, anyhow, 
she never gave it to anybody. But Mr. Brewster read it, 
and what do you think was in it?” 

“A message from Father?” 

Inez’s eyes filled again with tears. 

“Yes; certainly a message, for he left you in charge of 
Father, had Father lived, and if he died, to Mother; and 
Mother was to be your guardian, and was to have the care 
of you until you came of age; so there, Inez.” 

“But what does this mean?” said Inez. 

“It means, Inez, dear Inez, that we can’t be parted; that 
you must come to us, or we must come back to you. Mr. 
Brewster says that is what it means.” 

Inez’s face grew very pale, then a great flood of colour 
came over it. Then without saying another word she rushed 
to the window at one end of the corridor, and burst open 
the French doors to put out her head, and she gave some- 
thing between a laugh and a sob of the purest gladness. 
Then she came back. 


[I2l] 


A MADCAP 


“Then you are my sister?” 

“It seems like it.” 

“And David is my brother?” 

“It seems like it.” 

“And your mother, she is my mother?” 

“She will be a mother to you.” 

“And you are all coming back?” 

“Or you are to come to us.” 

“Is that indeed the case?” 

“It is; and Mr. Brewster is going across to see Mother 
to-morrow. And — what do you think, Inez ? — suppose 
w r e go with him. I could send him a telegram, and he would 
let us meet him and take us across to Dieppe.” 

“And suppose,” said Inez, “we beg of your mother, very 
hard, to shut up Dering Towers for the present, and to 
leave it with Barnard to take care of it. And suppose I 
stay with you in France. I’d like that best. I’d rather 
have nothing to do with Dering Towers until I am wiser, 
something as Father was wise, and something as your 
father was wise, too.” 

“Until you have learnt the meaning of duty,” said 
Dorothy. “But oh, you are learning it now, and I think 
perhaps that would be the best plan after all.” 

So the children slept happily that night, and Inez forgot 
her woes, and even Dorothy felt light-hearted and happy. 
And in the morning they did go to France, and there they 
met Mrs. Dering. 

Mr. Brewster had a long conversation with her, and then 
Mrs. Dering talked to Inez, and Inez flung herself into the 
kind, motherly arms, and Mrs. Dering said: 

“We will return with you, or you shall stay with us.” 

“I will stay with you,” said Inez. 

So it was arranged, and Inez felt all of a sudden that she 
had got a mother of her own, and brothers and sisters. 

“It is quite worth trying to be good now,” she said. And 
certainly no little girl could look happier. 

[ 122 ] 


Part II 

r 


CHAPTER I 


Miss Ferrier 



OUR years after the events related in the last 


chapter two girls might have been seen sitting all 


by themselves on the edge of the cliffs which looked 
across from Normandy to England. It was a white cliff, 
and the view before them of the rugged but picturesque 
coast and of the gay, sparkling waves was all that was lovely. 
The sun was blazing down with great heat. One girl held 
a sketch-book in her hand, and was busily engaged in sketch- 
ing a part of the low-lying coast. The other girl was read- 
ing aloud: 

“‘The path of a good woman is indeed strewn with 
flowers; but they rise behind her steps, not before them. 
Her feet have touched the meadows and left the daisies 
rosy.’” 

The girl paused and looked at her companion. 

“What a fuss everyone seems to make about women being 
good,” said the artist girl. “I suppose most women try 


to be.” 


“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy Dering in a reflective 
tone. 

“I think,” said Inez, pushing away her spirited sketch 
which she had been busily making, “that it isn’t worth while 
to be naughty. Your mother would make anybody good, 
if she could.” 


[ I2 3 ] 


A MADCAP 


“Yes, there are few like her,” said Dorothy. 

Inez rose to her feet. 

“It is four years now since I came to you,” she said, 
looking full at Dorothy. “The years seem to have flown. 
I don’t feel a bit the naughty, wild, passionate girl that I 
was. Oh, what a creature of impulse I must have seemed 
to you all when I arrived from Dominica!” 

“Mother said the other day: ‘Inez is clothed and in her 
right mind.’ Mother is very proud of you,” said Dorothy. 

“There’s no one like her, and I’m sixteen now,” said 
Inez. “I shall soon be grown up.” 

“And I am fifteen. We won’t be grown up yet, Inez, 
and I am glad of it. We go to England to school in a week’s 
time. I wonder how we shall enjoy it.” 

“Most people seem to like school. I suppose it will be 
quite jolly,” said Inez in a light tone. “Oh, here comes 
Suzette.” 

A ringing voice was heard in the distance. A beautiful, 
slender girl, with the golden hair she had worn as a little 
child still hanging in rich curls about her shoulders, dashed 
up to them. 

“Dorothy and Inez, you are to come back to the house 
at once. Miss Ferrier has come, and she wants to see you.” 

“Why, Miss Ferrier is our new mistress,” said Dorothy. 

Inez’s face turned a little paler. 

“I don’t want to see her to-day,” she said. “I want to 
go on with my sketch. Must I go? What do you think, 
Sue?” 

“Mother has sent for you. I suppose the sketch can 
wait. Oh, how nicely you are doing it.” 

“But the light won’t keep,” said Inez. “However, I 
suppose we must go.” 

“We must,” said Dorothy in that slightly sentimental 
tone which now and then characterised her. “That is, if 
we wish to be good.” 

“You daren’t quote Ruskin again to me, or I II become 

[ 124] 


MISS FERRIER 


naughty on the spot,” said Inez, shaking her pretty head. 

There was no longer any doubt with regard to Inez’s 
beauty. It was of the dark and rich type which makes 
ordinary English girls look insignificant beside it. She had 
gained in height. Her clumsiness had vanished. There 
was a sort of power about her, the very way she held her 
head on her shoulders spoke of some latent nobility. She 
was in reality a very fine girl now, having learnt in these 
four years to control herself. 

Dorothy had always been sweet and grave and purposeful 
and good, but Inez had not won her present position, nor 
her present character, without some bitter struggles. 

“Come,” she said, turning lightly to Suzette, “I suppose 
the sketch can keep. Anyhow it must. I meant it for 
Aunt Millicent’s birthday, and she herself has destroyed it 
— but the path of duty! — Give me your hand, Sue, we’ll 
race back to the house.” 

Suzette held out her pretty hand and they ran off together, 
while Dorothy followed more slowly. 

“Dear, dear,” she said to herself as she went down the 
winding path which led from the high cliff, “what a different 
girl Inez is. She is quite fascinating, everybody loves her. 
As to Mother, if I could be jealous of anybody, I’d be jealous 
of Mother’s devotion to Inez. She seems to fit Inez, and 
Inez to fit her. How great is their love, and what a mar- 
vellous power Mother has over her! Dave was talking of 
it when he came back from school the other day. Now 
everything is to be changed, and Mother is going back to 
Dering Towers to look after it for Inez until she becomes 
its mistress. And we are to spend our holidays there. But 
in the meantime we are to go to Miss Ferrier to be taught 
all those things that English girls ought to know. I sup- 
pose I ought to be very happy, and I suppose I am. There’s 
Dave, the darling! I’ll just run and meet him. He may 
as well come to the house too, and find out for himself what 
Miss Ferrier is like.” 


[ 125 ] 


A MADCAP 


David was very tall and broad and good-looking. Dorothy 
considered that there was no one in all the world like her 
brother. He paused when he saw her and as she came up 
to him, he pulled her hand through his arm. 

“I say, Dolly, I’ve got some splendid bait. Can we go 
out in a body and catch some dabs for supper ? ” 

“I’d like it, awfully,” replied Dorothy. “But I don’t 
think we can. Miss Ferrier, our new mistress has come, 
and mother wants her to see us. Inez and Suzette have run 
on in front. Won’t you come too, Dave ? ” 

“If you want me to. But must we stay indoors all this 
lovely evening ? ” 

“I hope not, but come, do come. You can read character 
so splendidly. I want you to tell us what you think of her.” 

“Well, I’ll make a bargain with you,” said David in a 
lazy tone. “If I like her, I’ll say so, and if I don’t like her 
I’ll be silent, for I’m not going to put you two kids against 
her, or rather you three kids, for Suzette goes to school as well 
as you two elders, I believe.” 

“Yes. I think she wants discipline even more than either 
Inez or I. Well, come, then, or Mother will be vexed if we 
are late.” 

The brother and sister turned their steps inland. They 
walked up a steep road, then along a winding path which led 
across a very precipitous rock, and by-and-by they found 
themselves on a terrace where chairs were scattered about 
and flower beds were intermixed at intervals. A low house, 
with a verandah, stretched right across one end of the 
terrace. The weather was sultry and the windows were 
wide open. The figures of children, ladies and servants 
were seen flitting about within, and as David and Dorothy 
approached, Suzette came out on the balcony and shouted 
to them: 

“We’re waiting tea! Do be quick, both of you!” 

“We’re coming presently, we can’t run up this steep 
ascent, you know, Sue,” cried her brother. 

[^ 6 ] 


MISS FERRIER 


She went back again into the house, her pretty light blue 
dress making a charming bit of colour. 

“We have been very happy in Normandy,” said Dorothy. 
“I feel quite sorry now that the end of our happy time here 
has come. Even with you at school most of the time, we 
have enjoyed ourselves, and as to Hal, it is w r orth something 
to have a brother who can talk French like a native, and can 
fish and swim and guide a boat.” 

“Yes, the time here has done him no harm nor any of us, 
for that matter,” said David. 

“And you are going to be a soldier, just like Father. Only 
you won’t join any regiment until you are a good bit older.” 

“I’m sixteen,” said David. “About the same age as 
Inez. I shall go to Sandhurst in a year, and before you 
know where you are I shall be on His Majesty’s Service.” 

He laughed and looked full at his sister. 

“Do you remember that time when we sat in the rose 
bower, Dolly? How miserable we were.” 

“Indeed, I do, and then Inez came and we thought her a 
most dreadful girl.” 

“I don’t think I ever thought that,” said David, “ but she 
certainly was unlike anyone else I had ever seen.” 

‘And she is still,” said Dorothy with enthusiasm. “She 
is like no one else. I can’t imagine why I disliked her so 
much at first, for now I simply adore her.” 

“Come in, children, come in,” called their mother at this 
moment. “We are all waiting tea.” 

“I declare, Dave, we’re getting quite rude,” said Dorothy 
with a laugh. 

She put wings to her feet, David followed her, and a 
minute or two later they both entered the pretty low dining- 
room which belonged to the old-fashioned chateau of St. 
Pierre. Here was a table covered with a snowy cloth on 
which were dishes of tempting food, piles of fruit, different 
forms of creams and junkets, hot cakes, roast fowls, 
salads, etc. 


A MADCAP 


Seated near one end of the table was a lady about thirty- 
five years of age. She was tall in figure and rather slender. 
Her face was neither dark nor fair, her eyes were gray with 
very black eyebrows. Her hair was turned back from a low 
forehead, and was of a light brown. She had firm lips, and 
a smile which when it came changed the whole expression 
of her face. In repose it was somewhat stern and 
almost too quiet. Mrs. Dering was chatting to her, 
the children were seating themselves at the table. Inez 
had placed herself between Suzette and Hal, and Chris- 
topher and Violet, a little way off, were gazing somewhat 
shyly at Miss Ferrier, afraid to speak and yet longing to 
express themselves. 

“Come here, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Dering, the moment 
her eldest daughter entered the room. 

Dorothy came quietly forward. 

“This, my dear child, is your future teacher, Miss Ferrier 
of Briar Hall. Miss Ferrier, this is my eldest girl, Dorothy 
Dering.” 

Miss Ferrier held out her hand. That brief pleasant 
smile which she possessed flashed over her face for an in- 
stant, then she was grave again. 

“I am glad to see you, Dorothy,” she said, “and I hope 
when you come to me you will be a good girl and have a 
happy time.” 

“I hope so too,” said Dorothy in her well-bred manner. 
“I am very anxious to begin my school life.” 

“I am bringing the girls to England next week, and 
Dorothy, Inez and Suzette will join you at Briar Hall on 
the 1 2th of September,” said Mrs. Dering. “If you would 
like to say anything to Dorothy or Inez after tea, they will 
be at your service, but if not — ” 

“I don’t think I want to say anything special to-day,” 
replied Miss Ferrier, still looking with marked interest at 
Dorothy. “I know as much as I care to know of a young 
girl at first, by just glancing at her. When your girls come 
[ I2 8] 


MISS FERRIER 


to my school they will, of course, undergo the usual ex- 
amination. You are fond of study, are you not, my dear?” 

“I don’t know,” replied Dorothy. 

“Dorothy is by no means backward for her age,” said 
Mrs. Dering. “Now, Dorothy, please pour out tea.” 

Dorothy retired to the other end of the table. 

“She has a nice face,” said Miss Ferrier, looking at the 
mother, “and graceful, gracious movements. I feel certain 
I shall like her. As to the other, the dark girl, she will be 
more difficult.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dering, speaking also very low, “but 
she is worth knowing, and worth managing,” she added. 

“I have heard something of her story. It is an uncom- 
mon one.” 

“It is.” 

“And you have had the training of her alone for the last 
four years ? ” 

“Yes, and I never had a more delightful pupil.” 

“That is very pleasant hearing. And your little girl, 
Miss Suzette?” 

“A good-hearted child, and well on for her years,” said 
Mrs. Dering. “Hitherto she has led a very sheltered life. 
I won’t tell you her faults, Miss Ferrier, for you will soon 
find them out for yourself, nor my Dorothy’s faults, although 
I sometimes think she has none. But then a mother, per- 
haps, isn’t the best person to speak of the virtues or failings 
of her own children.” 

“And Miss Inez’s faults?” 

“I regard her also as my own dear daughter. I cannot 
separate the three girls in my affection.” 

“I respect you very much for the sentiment,” said Miss 
Ferrier. 

Mrs. Dering pointed to a place at the tea-table, and the 
meal began. 

“It is a good thing for your daughters to have such a 
complete mastery of the French language,” said Miss 

[ I2 9 ] 


A MADCAP 


Ferrier. “It will give them a certain cachet in the school. 
I quite expect they will enjoy school life. I give a great 
deal of liberty to my girls. It is, I consider, a most valuable 
aid in the formation of character. Discipline with liberty 
combined, is what God intended us to have, and I carry out 
that idea in my training of the young.” 

“I have heard so much of your school, Miss Ferrier. I 
am so very thankful that you have vacancies for my three.” 

“Yes, it happened through an accident, through the sad 
death of Rosalie Irwin. She was killed by a fall from a 
tree last summer. She was a most brilliant girl, your chil- 
dren will hear a great deal about her when they come to 
Briar Hall.” 

The tea was over, and Mrs. Dering conducted her guest 
about the place. She told Miss Ferrier something about 
her future plans. 

“I am Inez’s guardian,” she said, “and until she comes 
of age, have the management of her very large property. 
During her minority, I am allowed, by the conditions of her 
father’s will, a considerable income towards bringing up 
my own children, and I take advantage of it, as is my duty 
to do. When Inez takes possession of Dering Towers, we 
shall be quite poor people. But still, we shall have enough 
to live on, and by that time both Dorothy and Suzette ought 
to be able to help themselves.” 

“It is a curious position, very,” said Miss Ferrier. “ One 
girl with such absolute power in her hands, and the others — ” 

“There was a time,” said Mrs. Dering, speaking in a low 
tone, “when in my heart I grumbled, and when I felt in- 
clined to resent it, but that time has long ago gone by, and I 
believe that the less luxurious life will be as good for the 
characters of my children as if they were the richest in the 
world.” 

“How wisely you speak, Mrs. Dering. How glad I shall 
be to have the care of children brought up as yours have 
been. I assure you the anxieties of a school like mine are 

[ * 3 ° ] 


MISS FERRIER 


often overpowering. My difficulty is with girls who have 
never been thoroughly disciplined, and have no idea of the 
true proportions of things.” 

The two ladies talked together for a little longer, while 
Dorothy and Inez, Suzette and David, wandered about on 
the sands. There was a curious expression in Inez’s dark 
eyes. 

“Do you like her?” she said, turning to Dorothy. 

“I don’t know her,” replied Dorothy, somewhat evasively. 

“She looks terribly strict,” said Inez. “I tell you what 
she does to me, — oh, Dave, don’t look so solemn and cross, 
— she stirs something up in me.” 

“What is that?” said Dorothy. 

“The horrid feeling I used to have when I lived in 
Dominica. I am just pining for a real, bad attack of down- 
right naughtiness. Can’t you understand?” 

“But you won’t have one, will you, Inez?” 

“Not if you look at me like that, Dave. I wouldn’t hurt 
your feelings for the world. But perhaps when I am far 
away from you and in another class from Dorothy, and 
when Suzette only looks at me with her blue eyes from an 
immeasurable distance, I shall yield to the inevitable. Oh, 
I don’t wish it, but I must confess I don’t altogether like 
that precious, proper, good Miss Ferrier,” 


CHAPTER II 


The Appearance oj Fernandez 

Miss Ferrier was to stay for the night, but the children 
were not expected to give up any more of their time to her. 
Presently Dorothy went out, accompanied by Suzette. 
Dave said he had some work to finish before he joined his 
tutor the next day, for he was working very hard just then 
for his Sandhurst entrance examination. 

Thus Inez, the young Spanish girl, was left alone. She 
did not quite know why she felt so restless and moped, why 
there was a sort of depression over her, as though something 
unpleasant were about to happen. She had been so carefully 
trained during the last four years, and so peaceful and 
healthy had been her life, that the old naughtiness had all 
but died within her heart. Still, it was there, and she 
had hot blood in her veins. She was not in the true sense 
of the word an English girl at all. She could love with 
passion, and also hate with passion. The idea of school 
life was exceedingly distasteful to her, and, but that she had 
such an ever-increasing adoration for Mrs. Dering, she 
would have struggled her best to resist that lady’s mandate. 
But Mrs. Dering, with all her love and kindness of heart, 
was also very firm. School was necessary for Inez, so 
necessary, that in order to enforce her own wishes, Mrs. 
Dering decided that Dorothy and Suzette should accompany 
her. 

“You, of all people, must learn what is the true meaning 
of discipline,” she said often to the girl. “You will have 
so much to do with the discipline of others by and by. 
You, as the head of a great estate, the owner of a great 
property, must know how to control your own heart, your 
[ J 32] 


THE APPEARANCE OF FERNANDEZ 

own impulses, your own feelings, before you can attempt 
to order the lives of others.” 

And while Mrs. Dering spoke, Inez, with all her best 
feelings brought to the surface, listened and agreed. But 
when Mrs. Dering was not present, the wild and somewhat 
tempestuous nature of the girl re-asserted itself. 

Now, most unfortunately, she had taken a prejudice 
against Miss Ferrier. Miss Ferrier was an excellent mis- 
tress, no doubt, but then Inez did not like her. To ex- 
change such a splendid counsellor and friend, and almost 
mother, as Mrs. Dering had proved, for one like Miss 
Ferrier — I Inez shuddered. 

“Even now I’d escape that horrid school if I could,” she 
thought. “But what is there about the Derings that makes 
me always, always , so ashamed of myself when I am naughty ? 
I don’t want to be naughty, not a bit. I’d much rather be 
good. But there are times when one has to give way a little. 
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I were not going to school.” 

“Inez, are you there?” called Mrs. Dering’s voice at 
that moment. 

“Yes, Aunt Millicent. Do you want me?” 

“Oh, no, darling, only don’t wander too far away.” 

“I’ll come in very soon,” said Inez. “It is delicious out 
here, and there’s a beauty of a moon.” 

Mrs. Dering and Miss Ferrier sat by one of the open 
windows. Inez moved farther away. 

“Now if Auntie were alone, wouldn’t I just run to her 
and coax her to come out, and put my hand through her 
arm! And wouldn’t we just walk up and down, and have 
a right jolly time! But with that old scarecrow — no, 
though, she isn’t a scarecrow, I suppose she’d be con- 
sidered good-looking — but with that Miss Niminy- 
piminy in the house, I wouldn’t go near Auntie, 
even if I were dragged with a pair of tongs! I wonder 
who’s that?” 

The change in Inez’s tone, for she was muttering her 

[ : 33 ] 


A MADCAP 


words half aloud, was caused by a footstep a little way off. 
The next moment, to her astonishment, and slightly to her 
dismay, she saw a man creeping slowly up to the terrace 
steps and coming towards her. 

“Don’t be frightened,” said a rich voice. “You don’t 
know me, perhaps, but I know you. I am your cousin 
Fernandez. I have come to speak to you all alone too. 
Why, Inez, aren’t you glad to see poor old Fernandez?” 

“I can’t say I am,” said Inez, recovering herself imme- 
diately. “And I don’t believe it is you, a bit. You live 
in Dominica.” 

“I don’t live in Dominica now. I have come all the way 
from Dominica to find you. I went first of all to Dering 
Towers, and there I was informed by a dreadfully prim old 
man, the steward, I suppose, that you were living in Nor- 
mandy. He gave me your address, and here I am. Inez, 
I have a lot to say to you. Won’t you listen? I’m your 
very own cousin, your first cousin, you know.” 

Inez was silent for a minute. She had never liked Fer- 
nandez, and certainly disliked him more than ever at this 
juncture. 

“How is it you can speak English so well ? ” she said, sud- 
denly. 

“Because I have been employed in England for the last 
two years and am pretty smart, I expect, and can pick up a 
language with anybody. Well, Inez, and have you no 
questions to ask ? ” 

As Fernandez spoke he flung himself down on a wicker 
sofa which happened to be placed at this part of the terrace, 
and looked full up at his young cousin. The moon shone 
on his face. It was coarse and large. The last four years 
had anything but improved him, and Inez stepped aw r ay as 
though she disliked him very much. 

“Come,” he said, stretching out one of his big hands, 
“come and sit near me. Haven’t you really a spark of 
affection for me, little Coz?” 

[" 34 ] 


THE APPEARANCE OF FERNANDEZ 


“Well, I never was fond of you, Fernandez,” said Inez, 
slowly. 

“No, and you were always frank, and always said your 
mind. But now listen. I want you to help me, and I want 
there to be no nonsense about it. I’m frightfully poor, and 
my mother, your poor, dear old Tanta, is dead.” 

“Tanta Marcia dead?” said Inez, really touched at last. 
“Oh, why wasn’t I told?” 

“What was the good of telling you? Your mother knew 
well that if ever you went to England, and got to know your 
fine English relatives, you’d cut us fast enough, and Mother 
said she never in all her fife knew such a heartless girl. But 
there, what I said was this: ‘It’s only natural that Inez 
should like the people who belong to her father.’ And it 
is natural, Inez, and I, for one, don’t blame you a bit, not a 
bit. My dear little cousin, I’ve been quite longing to see 
you. Come and sit near me and let me hold your hand.” 

“But I don’t want to hold your hand, Fernandez. Of 
course I’m dreadfully sorry about Tanta. Tell me how 
she died, and what did she die of?” 

“A sort of chill, I suppose. She -was nearly drowned in 
one of our floods, and the niggers on our plantation burnt 
down our house and everything belonging to it. And they 
very nearly killed both poor old Tanta and me. She died 
a week later, and I got away to Europe. We’ve lost all our 
property. I’m as poor as a church mouse.” 

“I’m sorry about poor Tanta.” 

“And aren’t you a bit sorry for poor me? Not a bit?” 

“Well, you see, I never did care for you.” 

Fernandez began to change his tone. 

“Look here, cousin,” he said. “Perhaps you are ashamed 
of me?” 

“ I don’t think lam — I — ” 

“Yes, you are. You wouldn’t like it remarked by other 
people, that that fine young lady, Inez Dering, the owner 
of Dering Towers and a whole lot of other property besides, 

1 135] 


A MADCAP 


has a low-down sort of cousin called Fernandez Feranzi, who 
hasn’t a farthing to bless himself with, and she doesn’t care 
whether he starves or not. Oh, he is her cousin, her 
mother’s nephew, but she doesn’t care whether he starves, 
or anything about him!” 

“I don’t know why you should say such horrid things, 
Fernandez, you frighten me.” 

“Well, miss,” said Fernandez, following up his bullying 
ways as he saw that he was making an impression on Inez, 
“it’s my intention to frighten you still more, unless you do 
something for me. I’m very clever, and I’m all but starving. 
I mean to live on you. You are going to that fine school 
next week — I was listening while you were talking to that 
Miss Ferrier, and I know where the school is, it’s Briar Hall 
in Devonshire. You are going there. Well, your dear 
cousin Fernandez Feranzi will go there also, and take 
lodgings in the village, and give himself out to be what he 
really is — your cousin. I have learnt to mend boots and 
shoes, and I’ll try and get the custom of the Hall. You 
won’t like to see me at that sort of work, but you’ll have to 
put up with it, unless you help me. And then, by and by, 
when you go to Dering Towers, I’ll live in the village there, 
and come up every day, and perhaps twice a day, to see you, 
my cousin, and everyone in all the world will know how hard 
you are to me. And you won’t be liked for it, and what is 
more you won’t like yourself either, Inez.” 

“You don’t really mean to be so detestable,” said Inez, 
with passion. 

“Indeed, I do. What ring is that you are wearing?” 

He suddenly snatched at his cousin’s hand. She had put 
on that day an old-fashioned ring which had belonged 
to her mother. She was always fond of it. It was 
twisted and curious — not of any very great value in 
itself, but quite out of the common. Fernandez held her 
hand. 

“If you call out,” he said “I’ll go straight up with you 

[136] 


THE APPEARANCE OF FERNANDEZ 


to your aunt, and explain to her who I am. She will see 
the justice of my getting help from you, my cousin.” 

“No, no, I don’t want her to see you!” 

Poor Inez could scarcely have said a more injudicious 
thing. 

“Then if you don’t, will you help me?” 

“If I can — but I don’t know how. It would be dread- 
ful for you to settle down near our school to do the cobbling,” 
said Inez. 

“I shall certainly do it, unless you help me.” 

Fernandez fixed his bold black eyes on her face. 

“What do you want? It is getting so late, Auntie will 
call out. What do you want me to do, Fernandez?” 

“I want you to give me ten pounds, that will do for the 
present.” 

“But I haven’t got it. I haven’t got three pounds.” 

“You can easily ask for it. Will you give it to me?” 

Inez began to consider. Perhaps she could sell something. 
It would be dreadful to have Fernandez near, she was so 
ashamed of him. Anything was better than telling her 
aunt. She did hate him so. 

“If I can manage to get you that money would you 
promise to stay away, and never, never to molest me again ? ” 

“I like that word molest! It isn’t a very cousinly way to 
speak. But I’ll promise, if you give me the money. When 
can I have it ? By this time to-morrow night, can I have it ? ” 

“I am sure not so soon.” 

“I must have it then. I’ll come to the same place — I’ll 
hide by that thick shrub at the end of the terrace, and you 
can walk along and put it into my hand. Here!” 

As he spoke he caught Inez’s right hand and pulled off 
the little twisted ring and slipped it on his own smallest 
finger. 

“Now,” he said, holding it up to her — “this is a pledge. 
I give you back the ring when you bring me the ten pounds, 
and not before; and if you don’t find the money I’ll come 

[137] 


A MADCAP 


and see your aunt to-morrow night, and tell her that you 
gave me this ring, so now you know. You can go home — 
I will watch for you to-morrow night. You had better 
come to meet me, and not fail, or it'll be the worse for your- 
self.” 

Before Inez could reply Fernandez had dashed down the 
steps and disappeared into the gloom. Inez sat quite still 
for a minute. She could not understand the strange sen- 
sation round her heart. Poor Tanta dead and Fernandez, 
hateful Fernandez, close to her, ready to torture her, to 
make her life miserable. It would be wise, very wise, to 
tell Aunt Millicent at this juncture. But Aunt Millicent 
was busy with Miss Ferrier, and she might not sympathize. 
Inez did not want her cousin to starve, and at the same time 
it would be agony to the proud child to have a relation of 
this sort dogging her footsteps. 

“He has promised to keep away if I get him the money 
— I will manage it somehow — I will try to,” was Inez’s 
thought. Then she walked slowly back to the house. 

As she entered, however, the first thing her aunt noticed 
was the absence of the little ring from her finger. 

“Come here, Inez,” said Mrs. Dering. 

Inez approached. 

“Did I not see you wearing your mother’s ring at tea to- 
night?” 

Inez looked down at her finger, then she said swiftly, the 
colour flooding her face: 

“No, it was last night I wore it.” 

“I felt certain I saw it on your finger to-night.” 

Miss Ferrier fixed her gray eyes on the girl’s face, and 
Inez, encountering those eyes at the moment, felt all too 
sure that Miss Ferrier had also seen the ring. There was no 
going back on her own untruth now, however. 

“It was last night really, Auntie,” she said in a gentle tone, 
and then she turned away. 

‘Well, go to bed, dear. I thought it was this evening. 

[138] 


THE APPEARANCE OF FERNANDEZ 

I should be sorry if you lost that ring — it is a very curious 
one. I really spoke about it now because I wanted to show 
it to Miss Ferrier.” 

“You can bring it down to-morrow morning and let me 
see it,” said Miss Ferrier, in a markedly cold tone, and the 
girl left the room. 

“Pardon me,” said Miss Ferrier a moment later to Mrs. 
Dering, “but your niece is partly Spanish, is she not? Of 
course that accounts for her dark face and hair. She is a 
handsome girl, but there is a crafty vein about all Spaniards. 
Have you noticed it in her?” 

“No, she is remarkably open and outspoken.” 

“Truthful too?” 

“Yes, absolutely.” 

Miss Ferrier was silent. 

“Why do you ask, Miss Ferrier?” 

“I don’t know — I have my suspicions. There is not 
the slightest doubt of one thing, Mrs. Dering. She told 
you an untruth just now about her ring, for she did have it 
on her finger this evening. I saw it there.” 

“I thought I did too,” said Mrs. Dering. “But if she 
did wear it she must have thought she did not. This is very 
strange.” 

“She hadn’t it on now,” said Miss Ferrier. “I only 
mention the fact because there is not the slightest doubt 
that she had it on her finger during tea-time, for I noticed it, 
and the peculiar green light caused by a little emerald which 
formed the ornament in the centre of the ring.” 

Mrs. Dering looked distressed. 

“Inez must have forgotten,” she kept repeating. “I 
will speak to her again on the subject in the morning.” 


CHAPTER III 


Inez Takes an Early Walk 

Inez and Dorothy slept in the same bedroom, which was 
a very pretty one with two large windows, opening with 
French doors on to a balcony which ran the entire length 
of the house. The girls often stood on their balcony for 
hours during the long, hot, summer evenings, talking their 
hearts out each to the other. They were great friends now, 
comrades in the best sense. Inez supplied the romantic 
and imaginative element, which Dorothy somewhat lacked. 
Dorothy, on the other hand, gave Inez strength and a com- 
monsense way of looking at things. 

“We must have five minutes on the balcony to-night,” 
said Dorothy, when the cousins met in the bedroom. “The 
moon will be setting before long, and I do want to watch 
that path of silver on the sea, and also to ask you what you 
think of Miss Ferrier.” 

“I hate her! Tiresome old frump!” said Inez, in a very 
cross tone. “Oh, Dolly,” she added, “I don’t want to 
stand on the balcony to-night. I’m dead tired. Can’t we 
go to bed?” 

“Why didn’t you come out with us?” said Dorothy. 
“We had a lovely row under the rocks, by moonlight. And 
Dave caught some fish. We’re going to have them for 
breakfast.” 

Inez yawned. 

“I was tired. I didn’t want to go.” 

Dorothy was always renowned for her penetration of 
character, and now she noticed a strange element in her 
cousin’s voice. 

“What is the matter?” she said. “Aren’t you well?” 
[ mo] 


INEZ TAKES AN EARLY WALK 


“Yes, I’m quite well, but I’m tired.” 

Dorothy entered the room and began to fasten the win- 
dows. 

“Leave one open, please,” said Inez. “The night is so 
hot that I shall suffocate.” 

Dorothy did so, and Inez slowly began to take the ribbon 
out of her thick black hair. Dorothy also commenced to 
undress. 

“I’m surprised you don’t like Miss Ferrier,” she said after 
a pause. “Now I think we’ll have a splendid time with her.” 

For reply Inez ran up to her cousin and put one of her 
hands on her shoulder. 

“Listen, I’ve not been really naughty for a long time, 
have I?” 

“No, you have been so good, so sweet — we all love you.” 

“Do you?” said Inez. “Do you really?” 

“You know it, Inez, you know it.” 

“And I almost w T ish you wouldn’t.” 

Dorothy glanced at her in surprise. 

“Dorothy, I must speak. “I’ll be naughty when I’m 
at school. I’m sure of it. I won’t obey Miss Ferrier — I 
won’t get on with the girls — I’ll be in scrapes — no end of 
scrapes! Can’t you ask Auntie — she won’t mind me, but 
can’t you ask her to let me stay with her ? I don’t like Miss 
Ferrier, and I could never obey her, never!” 

“Oh, Inez, it is settled now, we must go. Mother wishes 
it, and so does Mr. Brewster, your other guardian. Two 
years at school we must have, you and I. It will do us good,* 
and we’ll be together.” 

“It won’t do me good,” said Inez, in a reckless tone. “I 
shall get that sort of feeling I used to have in Dominica, the 
feeling I always had when Tanta Marcia was with me, or 
Fernandez. Oh, Dorothy, if there is anyone in the world 
I hate, it is Fernandez Feranzi.” 

“Why ever should you think of him now?” said Dorothy, 
in a tone of surprise. 


[ I4 1 ] 


A MADCAP 


“ I can’t help it — don’t ask me. Shall we get into bed ?” 

“ Certainly, if you like. I never heard you talk in such a 
queer way before — I mean for a long time, not since we 
came to Normandy.” 

“I wish you’d let me sleep with you to-night, Dolly. I 
want to feel your arms round me.” 

“You may, with pleasure,” said Dorothy, and a few 
minutes later the two cousins were lying side by side, Inez’s 
dark head lying against Dorothy’s shoulder. 

“I feel so safe when I am with you,” she said. “Dolly, 
there is something — and I’d like to tell it to you, but I 
can’t.” 

“Perhaps you can in the morning. If we’re both sleepy 
now, hadn’t we better go to sleep?” 

“As you like, you dear old propriety! But I have never 
felt so wakeful. But there, off you go, and I ’ll watch you. 
Kiss me just once.” 

Dorothy pressed her Ups to her cousin’s forehead, and a 
couple of minutes later her gentle breathing showed that she 
slept. But each moment Inez herself got more and more 
wide awake, and the momentary inclination to confide in 
Dorothy had left her. She could not — she would not. 
She felt that it would lower her in her cousin’s eyes to have 
a disgraceful sort of relation like Fernandez dogging her 
footsteps. 

“And for ten pounds, I shall get rid of him,” she thought. 
“Ten pounds isn’t a great deal of money to a rich girl like 
me. I shall get rid of him for that. I think I’ll have a try. 
I wonder if I could get it anyhow. I haven’t anything like as 
much money in my purse. I’ve only got about thirty shill- 
ings. Couldn’t I sell something ? I have a few trinkets of 
Mother’s. I am sure I could.” 

Inez slipped out of bed. Dorothy slept very soundly. 
Inez crossed the room in the moonlight, and came to a chest 
of drawers which was her own special property. She opened 
it and took out a little sandal-wood jewel case. Then, 
[ 142] 


INEZ TAKES AN EARLY WALK 


squatting down in her nightdress by the open window, she 
took out the small supply of jewels which she was allowed 
to wear, one by one. 

“He has my ring, horrid, dreadful man! I told a lie 
about that ring! Oh! I do feel such a naughty girl,” thought 
Inez. “I must get it back, it was Mother’s. She always 
wore it. She said Father gave it to her the day he asked her 
to marry him, and she had it on her dear hand when she 
died. Poor mamma, dear mamma! I must get it back 
somehow, in some sort of fashion.” 

There was a narrow gold necklace with a little locket 
attached to it in the jewel box; there were also two or three 
gold bangles and a few • brooches. Nothing of any real 
value, and yet everything fairly good of its kind. She looked 
over all her treasures carefully. There was no manner of 
use in asking her aunt to lend her ten pounds, nor of speak- 
ing to Dorothy, nor of consulting David. She must manage 
this matter in her own way. She had all the Spanish girl’s 
real love for secrecy, and in spite of her despair and un- 
happiness, she had a certain sense of enjoyment in the 
thought of managing this unpleasant business all alone. 
She examined those trinkets which she thought would not 
be missed, and finally put aside an old locket with tiny 
diamonds and a ruby in the middle, also a gold chain and 
two brooches. 

“Some one is certain to give me ten pounds for these,” 
she thought. 

She slipped the jewels into a small leather bag which she 
was fond of wearing at her w r aist, and returned the case to 
its drawer. She then got into her own bed and lay there 
shivering for a good while, and finally dropped asleep, the 
leather bag carefully hidden under her pillow. 

As a rule Inez slept late, but the disturbance in her 
mind affected her slumbers, on this occasion, and she woke 
early. There was a little clock on the mantelpiece and as 
she fixed her eyes on it, she saw that the hands pointed to 

[ 143 ] 


A MADCAP 


five minutes past six. There were fairly early hours kept 
at the chateau, but no one, as a rule, came downstairs before 
eight o’clock. 

“I shall have time,” thought the girl. 

So she slipped out of bed, and managed very quietly to 
dress herself. Then she opened the door and glanced be- 
hind her in a great fright, for if Dorothy should wake there 
was nothing for it but to give up her enterprise, or to confess 
the whole truth to her cousin and invoke her aid. This she 
wanted less and less to do as the minutes flew by. The door 
did creak a little, but Dorothy, happy, and soundly asleep, 
heard nothing, and a minute or two later Inez was outside 
the house, the fresh, warm summer air blowing on her hot 
cheeks, the sea lying at her feet, the whole world full of 
dancing summer delight and sunshine. 

Inez ran down as far as the beach. There was a cave 
where she and the other Dering children were fond of sitting. 
It was high up out of the reach of any ordinary tide. She 
went in there now and sat down, and opening her leather bag 
took out the jewels she had selected. So far she had done 
well, and she had, or she thought she had, in her possession, 
quite enough jewels to raise the ten pounds which Fernandez 
required. She began now to make a careful calculation. 
Ten pounds in English money — how much would it mean 
in French? She thought rapidly. 

“Two hundred and fifty francs,” she said to herself. T 
must make no mistake. He must have the exact sum he 
wants, then he won’t have the slightest excuse for lingering 
near or frightening me any more. And he’ll give me back 
dear mother’s ring. Yes, I must get two hundred and fifty 
francs for this necklace and this locket and these two 
brooches. I am sure I can do it; I am sure they are worth 
at least that much.” 

But where was Inez to get the money? Who would give 
it to her ? The chateau St. Pierre was situated about a mile 
away from a tiny village of the same name. The village 

[144] 


INEZ TAKES AN EARLY WALK 


was at the top of a hill, and was a very small, poor sort of 
place. Inez wondered if there were anybody there who 
would help her. She did not know. She was never allowed 
to go to the village alone, for the people were rough, and 
some of them inclined to be rude. Still, no one could be 
quite so rude or quite so dreadful as Fernandez himself, 
and Inez knew that if she did not make a great effort she 
could not escape from her detestable cousin. 

After thinking matters over, therefore, and putting the 
jewels safely back into the bag, she started up, determined 
to lose no more time; but to try if there were anyone in the 
village who would give her the two hundred and fifty francs 
for her jewellery. She must get to the village, she must 
complete her bargain, she must part with her treasures, 
come back with the money, and be up in her room in time 
to dress for breakfast, if she were really to succeed. Already 
it was half past six, she had only an hour and a half to do a 
great deal in. She got up briskly, left the beach, and began 
the ascent of a very steep road which led exactly past the 
chateau St. Pierre to the village of the same name. There 
was a much longer route round, but Inez did not mind the 
steepest hill, and soon she was toiling up this one. The 
morning happened to be a very hot one, and she was wiping 
the perspiration from her forehead by the time she reached 
the summit. She had made good use of the precious 
minutes, however, and entered the little village at a quarter 
to seven. 

In Normandy people are early risers, and already the 
shop shutters were taken down from the small shops, and 
the Norman peasants were milking their cows and driving 
their goats out to pasturage; hens and cocks in multitudes 
strutted across the road; the little old Catholic chapel 
sounded some hoarse notes on its cracked bell, and one or 
two villagers strolled in that direction. 

Inez stood still. What was the good of coming here? 
The baker would certainly not give her anything for her 

[ms] 


A MADCAP 

jewels, nor would the haberdasher, nor would the butcher. 
What was she to do? 

All of a sudden, however, her attention was arrested by a 
new shop. At least the shop itself was not new, it had been 
unlet for a long time. It was not only let now, but a 
very dapper little man, with a bald head and a stout person, 
was taking down the shutters and putting the shop window 
in order. The shop window was totally different from any 
other in the place. It contained all sorts of curious things 
— rows of photographs, little mugs with gilt letters on them, 
cups and saucers, a few crucifixes, some chains, and finally, 
what Inez was quite clever enough to understand, some very 
good pieces of old Norman silver. These were not put 
very much to the front, the showier and therefore to the 
villagers the more attractive articles taking that place. 
Inez’s quick eye, however, perceived at once that it was in 
the owner of this shop she might possibly find a purchaser 
for her trinkets. She accordingly went into it. She was 
now a fluent French scholar, and when the little man bowed 
to her, she began at once to talk to him in that language. 

“You have got a very pretty shop,” she said. 

“I have, ma’m’selle. Can I serve you with anything?” 

“No,” said Inez, colouring, “but I want to know if you 
will buy something. I have got something I’m anxious to 
sell.” 

The little Frenchman looked the untidy, dark and yet 
handsome girl up and down ; then he said in a low tone that 
he would be glad to examine any trinkets ma’m’selle might 
have to offer him. He spoke with the extreme politeness 
of his nation, but at the same time there was a tone in his 
voice which seemed to say that he thought it exceedingly un- 
likely that a girl, such as his present customer, could 
have anything in her possession that would be the least use 
to him. 

Inez now opened her little leather bag and took out her 
possessions. There was the chain of narrow beaten gold, 
[ M6] 


INEZ TAKES AN EARLY WALK 


made absolutely unlike any English chain, and there was a 
locket with its four precious stones, and there was a brooch 
with one lovely pearl in the centre with the most exquisite 
gold filigree work all round it. And there was another 
brooch made altogether of rubies, and the rubies were ex- 
cellent ones, although Inez knew nothing of that. 

The little man’s eyes leapt in his head when he saw these 
treasures. He drew them towards him and began to ex- 
amine them. Inez had seen that light of greed in his eyes, 
and her heart rose on the wings of hope. But the little man, 
Mons. Pirriet by name, was not going to give himself away. 
That one start of surprise was all that Inez was to see. He 
examined her treasures, took them to the back of his shop, 
applied a test to prove their genuineness, although well he 
knew that they were genuine, and then he returned to the 
girl. 

“Well, ma’m’selle,” he said, “they’re very old-fashioned, 
and in a place of this sort, you don’t get customers for such 
things. I might keep them in my little shop for years. But 
sometimes I go to Paris, and sometimes to Rouen, and there 
I might be able to sell the jewels, if, indeed, I could call any- 
thing so meagre and out-of-date by that name.” 

“But I want to sell them,” said Inez. “I don’t mind 
even selling them cheap.” 

“How much do you want for them, dear? How many 
francs, I mean?” 

“Oh, I want more than francs,” said Inez in some alarm. 
“I want Napoleons — a great many Napoleons.” 

“You must take them to some else one, my dear,” said 
Mons. Pirriet, pushing them towards her. “Take them. 
Don’t keep me, for I have my dejeuner to prepare and my 
customers — those who want little mugs and little votive 
offerings — will soon be coming. Take them and go 
quickly, ma’m’selle, for they’re worth no Napoleons to poor 
old Jacques Pirriet.” 

Inez’s black eyes filled with tears. 


A MADCAP 


“Won’t you give me something ?” she said. “They are 
of value. I know they are, for they belonged to my mother, 
and we had lovely things — that is, we had some lovely 
things; and I know this locket and chain my dear papa gave 
thirty or forty pounds English money for it, he did indeed!” 

“Thirty or forty sous, you mean, ma’m’selle.” 

“No, no! What will you give me?” 

“Name your sum, my dear, and if I can help you, seeing 
that you are in trouble, well, I’ll sacrifice a bit to do it.” 

Mons. Pirriet looked again at the locket. Again he ex- 
amined the four precious stones. But more valuable than 
the locket and chain was the ruby brooch. He would not 
in reality allow Inez to leave his shop without her goods 
passing into his hands, for all the world, but his intention 
was to get them for as small a sum as possible. 

“I won’t stay,” said the little girl, and she raised her eyes. 

“I’m in a great hurry, and if you don’t buy at once then 
I’ll have to take them back. You must be very quick. I 
want two hundred and fifty francs, I can 5 ! take one single 
sou less.” 

Now as Mons. Pirriet would have thought of giving quite 
three times that amount for Inez’s trinkets, he was quite 
delighted when she expressed her modest wish; but he 
would not be himself if he did not haggle a good deal, and 
it was six or seven minutes later before Inez, flushed and 
triumphant, left the shop with the precious money in dirty 
notes in her leather bag, and Mons. Pirriet was dancing 
a sort of hornpipe up and down his shop. 

Inez now ran home as fast as her feet would carry her. 
She was in luck. If she were very quick no one would know 
that she had been out. It would be months before the trin- 
kets were missed, and in the meantime, Fernandez, hateful 
Fernandez, would have gone back to Dominica. That he 
could persecute her after she gave him the ten pounds did 
not once enter into her calculations. 

She was running back to the house by the short cut when 

[i 4 8] 


INEZ TAKES AN EARLY WALK 


she saw coming to meet her, her face quite calm and serene, 
no less a person than Miss Ferrier. 

“What is she doing out? Horrid thing!” thought the 
child. 

Inez’s first wish was to dash past her future mistress, but 
Miss Ferrier stopped and held out her hand. 

“ How do you do ? I am glad to see you. I am glad you 
are an early riser. But how hot you look.” 

“I have been out some little time,” said Inez. 

“Where have you been?” 

Inez murmured that she had been in the village. 

“The village? Tell me where the village is. I should 
like to see it for myself.” 

“You won’t have time if you are going to be in for break- 
fast,” said Inez. 

“I think I shall. It is only half past seven.” 

Inez was now forced to say: 

“ If you go up to the top of the hill and turn to the right you 
will see the village quite close to you, but it is not at all a 
pretty place.” 

“Thank you, dear, I am very much obliged. By the way, 
your bag is open — that bag you are wearing at your 
waist.” 

Inez started and coloured crimson. The bag was wide 
open, and within could be perceived, by anyone who had eyes 
sharp enough to see, unmistakable bank notes, soiled bank 
notes of France. Inez shut up the bag. Miss Ferrier gave 
her a keen glance, and the little girl went back to the house. 

“'Now what is the matter?” thought the mistress. “I 
think I ought to be put in touch with that child, if I am to 
do anything with her. There is something wrong, beyond 
doubt. She told a lie last night and now this morning she 
has been out early, looking exceedingly confused and guilty, 
and has evidently got a good deal of money in her bag.” 

Miss Ferrier thought and thought, and the more she 
thought the less she liked the aspect of affairs. She was a 

[149] 


A MADCAP 


woman who prided herself on winning the hearts of her 
pupils. In most cases she turned the most obstinate and 
naughty girl into the paths of virtue. She was not frightened 
with regard to Dorothy, nor had she any anxiety as to the 
future of Suzette; they were both nice, bright, straight-for- 
ward English girls. But this girl, with the foreign strain in 
her, and the wild look in her eyes, was different. Just for a 
minute Miss Ferrier felt that she might be doing wrong in 
accepting such a girl in her school, but then she fortified 
herself with the thought that if she really reached the bottom 
of this mystery she would know how to treat Inez. 

With purpose in her walk and also in her heart, she went 
to the village. Inez was quite right when she said the place 
was small and uninteresting, and amongst all the shops now 
open to expose their wares to the passers-by, Mons. Pirriet’s 
seemed to be the most inviting. Miss Ferrier stood for a 
little time looking in, first at one article of vertu and then at 
another. By and by a small silver coin with a curious in- 
scription on it excited her attention, and she entered. 

Mons. Pirriet, with Inez’s jewels safely locked away out of 
sight, for he had not the most remote intention of exhibiting 
such treasures at St. Pierre, bowed to his new customer. 

“What can I have the pleasure of serving you with, 
madame?” he asked. 

Miss Ferrier enquired the price of the silver coin, bought 
it, and transferred it to her pocket. She then drew the little 
man into conversation. He spoke volubly, she laughed, 
and delighted him with her excellent French. Mons. 
Pirriet forgot all about his dejeuner , and so, it seemed, did 
Miss Ferrier. By and by she said she wanted to give a 
present to a young lady who was soon to be married. This 
lady had a passion for old-fashioned things. Had Mons. 
Pirriet anything of the sort to show her ? 

“I have some of very great value and of unique aspect,” 
he said, “but doubtless madame would not want to pay a 
big price.” 


[ r 5°] 


INEZ TAKES AN EARLY WALK 

Madame did not know. She was willing to look at the 
trinkets in question. 

Mons. Pirriet now took from their hiding-place Inez’s 
two brooches and her necklace and locket, and laid them on 
the table for Miss Ferrier to examine. Miss Ferrier knew 
at once that they were valuable. 

“They are curious things for you to have,” she said, “for 
they are not French.” 

“No, madame, they’re foreign. They come from the 
far, far west.” 

“ Indeed 1 Have you had them long?” 

“Not to say very long, madame.” 

“Did you by any chance buy them from a young lady 
who lives here?” 

Mons. Pirriet got very red and then very white. 

“Why do you ask, madame?” 

“ Only that I have a reason; there is a young lady in whom 
I am specially interested, who I think must have parted 
with some of her jewels, because I happened to meet her 
returning from the village half an hour ago, and her little 
leather bag, which she was wearing at her side, was open, 
and I saw therein a roll of notes. Now this young lady 
would not have so much money of her own. It further 
occurred to me that she might have sold some of her jewels, 
and if so — ” 

“Yes, madame, yes?” 

“You had better tell me the truth, Mons. Pirriet; it would 
not be at all pleasant for yourself, if you had given her, for 
instance, about a tenth of their value.” 

“Oh, madame! A poor man like me! I beseech you!” 

“How much did you pay her for these jewels? I will 
return you the amount, and take them with me.” 

Miss Ferrier was a woman of determination. Mons. 
Pirriet, with all his love of gold, was timid. She had but 
to assure him that she knew what the law was on these 
points, and that she could make things very uncomfortable 

[i5i] 


A MADCAP 


for him, and in the end he consented to part with Inez’s 
jewels for the sum of fifteen pounds. 

“It’s terrible, when I think what I might have got for 
them,” he whispered to himself, “but even one hundred 
and twenty five francs profit is not so bad for one morning’s 
work ! ” 


[ r 52] 


CHAPTER IV 

The White Stone in the Shrubbery 

Miss Ferrier was to leave St. Pierre early that morning, 
but before she went she asked to have an interview with 
Mrs. Dering. Mrs. Dering took her into the pretty garden 
at the back of the house. 

“I shall not see you again until your girls are committed 
to my care,” said the younger lady, “and before I leave to- 
day, I should like to say one or two things about the young 
Spaniard, Inez Dering.” 

“You must remember, please,” said Mrs. Dering in a 
gentle tone, “that Inez is only Spanish on her mother’s 
side. On her father’s side she belongs altogether to Eng- 
land. It is from her father she inherits the very fine property 
which will be hers when she comes of age.” 

“I quite understand that,” replied Miss Ferrier, “but 
the fact is this: these foreign strains are always very 
marked in those who inherit them. They are marked by 
strong characteristics, and some of them are of an unpleasant 
character.” 

“What do you mean?” said Mrs Dering, speaking in an 
almost annoyed tone. 1 ‘ My dear child — yes, I regard her as 
my child — is most precious to me, and yet you seem to imply 
that you would almost rather not have her as one of your 
pupils!” 

“That is quite true, Mrs. Dering,” said Miss Ferrier in a 
low tone, and she fixed her eyes on Mrs. Dering’s face. 

“But why so? You must explain yourself.” 

“I will do so, if you will give me time. My school is a 
select one. I never take more than twenty girls. I have 
been pressed over and over to increase that number, but I 

[153] 


A MADCAP 


have always, hitherto, been absolutely firm. Girls have 
waited to come to my school, and the names of very little 
girls have been put on my books in order to ensure my hav- 
ing room for them when they arrive at the right age ; and the 
whole and sole reason in these days of many schools and 
many masters and mistresses, why my school should be re- 
garded as so select and good a school for the training of both 
mind and body, is that I am absolutely fearless and out- 
spoken. I believe that if I take your Inez to be my pupil, I 
shall be able to help her, but I want you to understand, Mrs. 
Dering, that the process is likely to be an intensely painful 
one. She will have to tread the path of humiliation, and I 
must have an absolutely free hand. I do not wish to con- 
ceal anything from you in this matter, and if, under the 
circumstances, you would prefer her going to another school, 
will you say so now?” 

“You frighten and distress me,” said Mrs. Dering. 
“There is one thing certain, wherever Inez goes, her two 
cousins, Dorothy and Suzette, must accompany her. I 
have promised her co-guardian, Mr. Brewster of Chancery 
Lane, that I will not part the children. I must tell you that 
when Inez first came to me she was troublesome, wild and 
unmanageable, but for the last four years I have done my 
utmost to guide her by the law of love, and I have been 
much, yes, abundantly satisfied with the results.” 

Miss Ferrier laid her hand on Mrs. Dering’s arm. 

“You know that ring you missed off Inez’s finger last 
night?” 

“I do, indeed. I have been thinking about it a good 
deal.” 

“You haven’t by any chance said anything more to her 
about it?” 

“No — not yet. What she said about the ring puzzles 
me, but I will speak to her about it now if you like.” 

“I earnestly beg of you not to. I am relieved to find you 
have not noticed it. Now there is another thing. I do not 

[154] 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 


wish to make any complaints, but quite by accident I made 
a further discovery with regard to your niece, Inez Dering. 
I have taken steps by which I believe I shall be able to ac- 
quire a strong influence over her, and what I would ask of 
you is, that in case she comes to me as my pupil you will 
allow me to act as I think right in this matter, and you will 
not question me; if, on the other hand, you believe that it 
will be best for her to go elsewhere, I will tell you what I 
have done, and exactly what has happened.” 

“You certainly puzzle me,” said Mrs. Dering, “and dis- 
tress me. The child has been so good. And you do not 
wish me to know?” 

“If I am to manage her, if she is to be an inmate of my 
school, I do not wish anybody to know. I myself will deal 
with her when she comes. At present, I know well, she does 
not like me, but I hope that state of affairs will soon change.” 

“And you will be kind to her?” 

“Kind? Mrs. Dering! It isn’t a question of kindness; 
my effort, my desire, my longing is to save the souls and 
bodies of those committed to my care. You cannot even 
realise how much I love those children.” 

“Indeed, indeed, after what you have just said, I am 
abundantly satisfied to trust my darling Inez to you.” 

“Then that is all right. Say nothing to her about the 
ring. Give her any latitude you like between the present 
time and the time of her arrival at my school. But while 
she is with me, I must ask you to trust me wholly, and I 
should like you to tell all the children that for the time — 
during the term, I mean — I am to them in the place of a 
mother, to do exactly for them as I think fit.” 

“I quite agree with you,” said Mrs. Dering. “One has 
only to hear what the other parents have said of you to be 
abundantly satisfied. I am thankful that you are going to 
have the girls in your care.” 

Miss Ferrier did not add any more, and a few minutes 
afterwards she went away. 

[i55] 


A MADCAP 


When she was gone Mrs. Dering went down to the beach 
where the children were employing themselves happily as 
usual. As usual, too, Inez was busy sketching. She had a great 
love for this special art, and her drawings were exceedingly 
clever. Mrs. Dering looked at her now almost wistfully. 

“Of all the children,” she said to herself, “there is no one 

— no one, who gives me that curious mingled feeling of 
pleasure and pain that Inez does. I do look upon her now 
as one of my own. What could Miss Ferrier have meant? 
What can my little girl, so good, so sw T eet, so affectionate, 
have done? And yet that she must have done something 
I have not the slightest doubt, for in no other way can Miss 
Ferrier ’s words be explained.” 

When Inez saw her aunt she put away her sketching 
materials and ran to meet her. She sat down close to her, 
nestling up with affection and looking into her face. 

“Well, Auntie, it is nice to see you again. I’m glad that 
old frump has gone!” 

“You mustn’t call your new teacher a frump, Inez.” 

“Oh, Auntie, don’t scold me during the last few days that 
I shall be with you.” 

“I don’t want ever to scold you, darling.” 

“And you don’t, not really. But come, she is a frump.” 

“Let us define the word, Inez,” said Mrs. Dering, taking 
the child’s hand and rubbing it softly between both her own. 
“ What do you call a frump ? ” 

“ Oh, — oh,” said Inez, for she was not good at definitions 

— “the sort she is!” 

“I have always imagined a frump was something like 
this,” said Mrs. Dering, and she took Inez’s pencil, and with 
clever fingers sketched an untidy, elderly, old-fashioned 
woman, her shoes slipshod, her hair partly escaping from its 
confinement, her shawl awry, her bonnet on crooked. 

“There now,” she said, as Inez burst out laughing. “In 
what particular way does Miss Ferrier resemble that person? 
See, this is Miss Ferrier.” 

[156] 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 

She then made another sketch, an upright, beautifully 
made woman, in perfect dress, simple, stately, calm in 
aspect. 

“Oh, Auntie, how clever you are, and you are quite right. 
She has a look of Miss Ferrier. But I think, after all, I’d 
rather have the old frump. The fact is I don’t know why 
I called her an old frump — it was just because I disliked 
her. I do dislike her. I don’t think I shall be good at 
school.” 

“When you love people you like to please them, Inez, 
don’t you?” 

“Of course.” 

“You love me?” 

“Need*you ask?” There was a closer pressure of the 
little figure and a warmer clasp of Mrs. Dering’s hand. 
“You have just saved me, Aunt Millicent. I don’t know 
where I’d be but for you.” 

“My dear little girl, your love is warmly returned, not only 
by me, but by us all.” 

“Auntie, need I go to school? Do you think it is neces- 
sary ? ” 

“It is settled, dear. Discipline is necessary for us all. 
We cannot alter it now. It is arranged. Don’t ask me 
again.” 

Inez was silent for a minute. 

“I won’t,” she said suddenly, “not if you speak like that. 
And it makes it less difficult, yes, less difficult, when you feel 
there is no getting out. I suppose I’ll be good, that is, after 
a fashion, but I shall never love school, and I shall always 
pine for the holidays.” 

“I want you to try and realise what school is for, Inez. 
It is to prepare you for the battle of life. You know, dear, 
life is only being placed in a higher school. All life is like 
that. Take the good that the little school gives in order to 
be strong enough for the greater.” 

“Are you in that school now?” 

t *57 ] 


A MADCAP 


“Yes.” 

“And you will always be there?” 

“Yes.” 

“I expect, Auntie, you had a rather tough time when you 
found that I had arrived all the way from Dominica to take 
your money away.” 

“I had, Inez, that is, at first.” 

“Ah, now you have owned to it,” said Inez. “I think 
that is so splendid of you. Do you know, times and again 
I have hated myself — yes, hated myself — when I remember 
that I have done this — so nice and delightful as you all are.” 

“You must never talk like that again. Your coming to 
us and being the owner of Dering Towers has been ordered 
by God. And now come for a walk. You know we are 
leaving this dear old place early next week, and we have a 
great deal to do.” 

The rest of the day was spent in great enjoyment by all 
the children. Mrs. Dering was the sort of woman who never 
allowed an idle moment. The early dinner was, as a rule, 
followed by a pleasant expedition, boating, fishing, or driv- 
ing. Sometimes the pleasure of the afternoon consisted of 
a picnic tea; but whatever the delight, Mrs. Dering was the 
soul and organizer of everything. She talked a good deal 
to the girls about the wardrobes they would require at 
school, and spoke with enthusiasm of the delightful life they 
would lead. She consulted Inez, as she invariably did, with 
regard to her wishes for Dering Towers. 

“At Christmas time I want you all to have a grand time,” 
she said, “and if there happen to be any special girls at the 
school whom you would like to invite, let me know, in order 
that their parents may be consulted. And now, dears, we 
have spent a long and happy day. Inez looks much more 
tired than usual. Suppose you all go to bed early.” 

This was in the cool of the long summer evening, when 
Inez, as usual, had found a place nearest to her aunt. 

“Oh, I’m not tired,” she said. 

[•58] 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 


v Her words, however, belied her, for she yawned as she 
spoke. Dorothy and Suzette both burst out laughing. 

“Why, Inez, you look dead beat.” 

“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” said Inez, uneasily. 

She remembered Fernandez. He would not arrive at the 
rendezvous until nine o’clock. It would be quite half an 
hour before she could relieve her mind. 

“I don’t want to go to bed. We never go so early. Do 
let me stay up a little longer,” she continued. 

“I shall go,” said Dorothy. “Come, Suzette, you are as 
white as a sheet.” 

The two girls left the room. Mrs. Dering did not say 
anything more. It was one of her rules not to interfere too 
much in little things. The girls were not expected to go to 
bed until nine o’clock, and if Inez wished to stay up until 
that hour it did not matter. 

Inez now took up a French story book and sat close to 
the window. 

“You are too far from the light to read, Inez,” said her 
aunt. “You had better come nearer to me.” 

“Oh, I can see,” said Inez. 

She bent over the book. Mrs. Dering knew that she could 
not see, but remembering Miss Ferrier’s words did not say 
any more. She guessed that Inez was restless, and wondered 
a little anxiously what the matter was. The child’s face 
for the last hour had worn a strained look. What could be 
the matter? 

By and by a clock outside struck a quarter to nine, and 
then Inez got up. 

“Are you going to bed, dear?” 

“Presently. May I go on the balcony for a little?” 

“Yes, but put on a shawl.” 

Inez had hidden the dirty bank notes in the front of her 
dress. She now caught up a pink shawl which belonged to 
Dorothy and put it round her shoulders. The moon was 
coming up in great beauty as she stepped outside. The 

[ J 59 ] 


A MADCAP 


balcony was as light as day. Inez hoped that her aunt 
would not come out. She often did so, but it would not do 
if she came to-night. All her pleasure would he spoiled, all 
her sense of security, if Aunt Millicent knew that Fernandez 
Feranzi was in Normandy. 

How slowly the time went. She walked up and down in 
great excitement. She paused to listen. She looked around 
her. She could hear as she paced up and down the swish, 
swish of the waves, and there w r as a path of silver across the 
sea. For a moment she clasped her hands. Her heart was 
full of mingled feelings of love for her aunt, affection for her 
cousins, and hatred for Fernandez and for Miss Ferrier. 

“Why should I give up my happy life to go to her?” 
thought the child. “She will never suit me, never!” 

A few more minutes passed, then the clock struck nine 
sonorous strokes, and at the same time Inez ran quickly in 
the direction of the thick shrubs growing up against the 
farther end of the terrace. She stopped just before the 
shrubs and said in a low tone: “Fernandez!” 

In a moment the ugly dark face of her cousin made itself 
visible. 

“Have you got them for me ? Have you got them ? ” 

“Yes, but I want my ring,” said Inez. 

“I’ve forgotten it.” 

“Oh, I can’t give you the money to-night. Come again 
to-morrow. How could you forget it?” 

“Folly, Inez!” said the man roughly. 

He caught the girl round the waist. 

“You give me the money directly, or I’ll call out,” he said. 

“How dreadful you are — I’m afraid of you. Oh, what 
shall I do?” 

“Give me the money and don’t make a fuss.” 

Inez put her hand inside the lining of her dress, and took 
out the dirty notes. 

“There,” she said. “Ten whole pounds. But, oh, my 
ring, my ring!” 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 


“Thank you, Inez, you’re a brick!” said Fernandez. 
“And why you should be so queer and rough in your manner, 
and so frightened of me, beats me hollow — I who used to 
play with you when you w r ere a little kid just like anything. 
You’re a very queer girl; but I’m obliged.” 

“And my ring?” 

“I’ll bring it to you to-morrow. I don’t know why I 
shouldn’t come and see your aunt.” 

“But you promised.” 

“Well, I won’t. You’ll never see me any more.” 

“I don’t want to see you any more, but I must have my 
ring.” 

“I’ll send it to you by post.” 

“No, don’t do that, it would be noticed.” 

“Then I tell you what, Inez, I’ll put it in an envelope and 
bring it up here and lay it exactly under this stone.” 

“Do, do!” said Inez. “When will you do it?” 

“The first thing when I get up to-morrow. I always rise 
early. I’ll bring it then, or if I can’t, I’ll bring it to-morrow 
night.” 

“You won’t forget?” 

“Of course not.” 

“ Inez ! Where are you ? ” called out Mrs. Dering. 

“Coming, Auntie,” answered back Inez. “Fernandez, 
I must go. I’ll never see you again, so good-by. Don’t 
forget the ring.” 

Mrs. Dering noticed how excited and flushed Inez looked 
when she returned, but true to her promise to Miss Ferrier, 
although she felt very uncomfortable over the matter, she 
abstained from making any comment. 

“You had better go to bed, dear,” she said, and as she 
spoke she glanced at the child’s hand. There was no ring 
there. 

“I wish I hadn’t made that stupid promise,” thought the 
good lady to herself. “I ought to speak to the child. I 
have always won her complete confidence lately. Still, if the 
[161] 


A MADCAP 


school experiment is to be carried out I suppose I must do 
what Miss Ferrier asked me.” 

Accordingly she said: 

“Go upstairs and get into bed as fast as you can. You 
look far more tired than I like to see you. Good-night, my 
dear, good-night.” 

Inez kissed her aunt with a mingled feeling. She was 
greatly relieved at what she considered her own success. It 
never once entered her mind that Fernandez would be un- 
true to his word. She felt certain she had got rid of him. 
But her ring, her mother’s ring! She thought of it as she 
undressed and as she lay on her pillow, and once again in her 
dreams she enacted the scene when her mother had taken 
it from her finger and had pressed it upon the child’s ac- 
ceptance. 

“When you are old enough, wear it for me, and never, 
never part with it,” the dying woman had said. 

“If it had been any ring but that I could bear it,” said 
Inez. 

She woke out of her sleep with tears rolling down her 
cheeks. 

The next morning, however, dawned bright and beautiful. 
The children were all in excellent spirits and Inez was as 
happy as the others. She would get her ring back, if not 
that morning assuredly by night. She was kept very busy 
packing for their return to England and in other ways. 
She had no time to go to the stone in the shrubbery until 
about the middle of the day. There was no ring there. 
Then she went again that night. Still no ring. Now she 
felt seriously alarmed and quite unhappy, but she did not 
dare to say a word to her aunt about Fernandez and his near 
neighbourhood. 

At supper that evening David said something which 
alarmed her very much. 

“Do you know,” he said, “as I was coming through St. 
Pierre this afternoon, I met a man who was quite a foreigner. 

[162] 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 

He was pacing up and down the village, and he turned and 
looked at me. A most horrid-looking person. I couldn’t 
think who he could be, and as I was pondering old Gr£pon, 
the baigneur, came up and said: 

“‘That is one of them Spaniards, and we don’t like him, 
and the sooner he gets out of the place the better. ’ ” 

“Oh, Inez, I forgot, you are fond of all Spaniards, aren’t 
you?” 

“No, I’m not,” said Inez fiercely. “The fact is I hate 
them.” 

“Still, you oughtn’t to talk against them before her, dear,” 
said his mother to David, and David added no more. 

But Inez’s sense of misery grew worse. Fernandez had 
not kept his word. If he did not keep it in little things, 
perhaps he would not in big things. Perhaps after all she 
had not got rid of him when she gave him that ten pounds. 
Then how was she to get her mother’s ring ? It would be 
unlucky if she did not get it back. 

“I’d never have any more luck if I lost it,” she thought, 
with all a Spaniard’s superstition. “ Oh, I wish I could see 
him. I wonder if I shall. I must really tell him to go. It 
is horrid always to be running away from the others, but I 
must get back my ring.” 

Inez thought for some little time, and then an idea came 
to her. It seemed possible to the little girl that David might 
help her. She had been quite truthful now for several 
years, but at the bottom of her heart was a certain power of 
concealment which might lead even to acts of great deceit, 
a power absolutely impossible to the ordinary well-educated 
English girl. 

Accordingly on the evening of the following day she tried 
to draw David aside. 

“Dave, I do want to have a talk with you.” 

“What about, Inez?” he said affectionately, for he was 
very much attached to his cousin. 

“ Can’t you and I take a long walk all by ourselves ? This 

[ i 6 3 ] 


A MADCAP 


is Saturday, and we return to England on Monday. I want 
to go with you alone — none of the others to be present, do 
you understand?” 

“Yes, Inez, and it can be easily managed. When shall 
we go?” 

“There is no time like now,” said Inez, with a smile. 

“All right, I’m ready. Just you sit still, and I’ll be back 
with you in a jiffy!” 

David ran into the house. 

“Mother, I’m not going out in the boat just now. I’m 
going for a stroll with Inez.” 

“But why not?” said Suzette. “We were all going out 
in the boat and we want you ? ” 

“You can take Grepon. He’ll be only too delighted to 
have a chance of rowing you once again. Now I’m off.” 

He came back to his cousin. 

“Where shall we go, Inez?” 

“Let’s go up the steep hill and through St. Pierre,” said Inez* 

“Why should we go that way? It isn’t at all pretty.” 

“I want to get away from the sea just for once. We can 
go all along the headland, and down into one of the valleys, 
and then up again for a long, long walk.” 

“All right. It’s a lovely day, not a bit too hot, and I’m 
quite in the humour,” said her cousin. 

They started, and by and by reached the summit which 
led to the little village. * 

“How well you climb hills, Inez.” 

“Of course,” replied his cousin,. “Am I npt always 
doing it?” 

“Yes. I wonder how you will like your school life.” 

“I shall hate it!” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t hate it if I were you, we oughtn’t to hate 
things.” 

“But, Dave, I often do things that I oughtn’t.” 

“You used to be one of those silly creatures; but you’re 
not so lately,” replied David. 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 


“Yes I am, that is, in my heart. I’m as mad as ever in my 
heart — just the same — and she’ll make me — oh, she’ll 
drive me wild !” 

“What do you mean by ‘she?’” 

“That horror, that Ferrier woman.” 

“Now, Inez, you’re talking stuff! And if I ever I hear 
more of it, I’ll just give you a piece of my mind. We 
can’t have all we want in this world. You know that. 
We’ve got to do things we don’t like. It’s awfully good 
for us.” 

“I used to suppose it was; but I don’t lately. By the 
way, Dave,” — sidling up to him — “was it here you saw 
that Spaniard ? ” 

“Of course, it was just here. He was going down the 
street. As far as I could gather he seemed to have rooms 
in a house close to the church. But he wasn’t at all good to 
look at, I assure you. I don’t want to see him again.” 

“You hate Spaniards, don’t you?” 

“ Oh no, I know nothing about them. That is, I do know 
of one, but she is more English than Spanish.” 

“No, no, that’s not true,” said Inez. “She is Spanish 
in her heart. She often feels — well, you know what an 
exile would feel.” 

“ Oh, my dear Inez ! Come now, you are one of the family, 
English of the English. Stuff! Stuff and nonsense you do 
talk! An exile, indeed!” 

“Well, if you had lived all your life in Dominica, and 
always talked to Spanish people, and if your mother) darling 
Auntie, had been Spanish, and then everything stopped, 
and you were sent away, and you never saw the old faces, 
nor heard the old tones, nor listened to the dear, dear 
language, perhaps you’d — ” 

“To be sure,” said David. “My darling cousin, I hadn’t 
the slightest idea you felt like that. I’m ever so sorry! I 
am really ! And so you’ve been lonely ? ” 

“I have pin^d not so much for the Spaniards, as to hear 
[165] 


A MADCAP 

the Spanish tongue. I want to meet that Spaniard and to 
hear him talk.” 

“Well, so you shall. But he looked very beggarly and 
shabby. Are you prepared to give him money?” 

“Yes — and no,” replied Inez. 

“Here is half a Napoleon in my pocket, I’ll give you that 
for him.” 

“ Oh, how dreadful Fernandez must have looked for David 
to speak of him like this, and he is my cousin ! ” thought the 
girl. 

“We’ll go and look for him,” said David. “We’ll get 
some one to tell us where he hangs out. Here, let’s go in 
here and enquire.” . 

Before Inez could stop him he had gone into Jacques 
Pirriet’s shop. 

“Oh, not in there!” called )ut Inez, but he did not hear 
her. 

He inquired of Pirriet if he knew of any Spaniard who 
had taken rooms in the village. The little Frenchman be- 
came very loquacious and pointed out the exact spot where 
the man in question was staying. 

“He may be gone,” he said. “He called here yesterday 
and sold one or two things. I dare say he has gone by now.” 

Inez stood very pale near the door. 

“I’ll be always glad to see you, Ma’m’selle,” he said bow- 
ing to the child, “and those things you brought me yester- 
day — ” 

“Oh, come, Dave, we can’t stop,” said Inez, rushing out 
into the street. 

“I didn’t know you knew this man,” said David, in some 
amazement. 

“Oh, I don’t really.” 

“But he knew you, and he said — ‘Those things you 
brought to my shop ’ — ” 

“I was looking at some of his things, he must have made 
a mistake,” said Inez. 

[166] 


THE WHITE STONE IN THE SHRUBBERY 


“Then you do know him?” 

“Just as far as that goes. I’ve been in the shop once.” 

“How red you are. What is the matter?” 

“Nothing! I should like to meet that Spaniard, though. 
It would be lovely to hear my native tongue.” 

Just at that instant who should they see coming to meet 
them down the street but Fernandez himself. He did not 
want to see Inez at that moment, and would have whipped 
round a corner, had not the girl rushed up to him. She 
did not dare to take his hand in David’s presence, but she 
spoke rapidly in Spanish. 

“How wicked of you not to bring back my ring! I am 
nearly mad about it. You must put it under the stone with- 
out fail to-night or to-morrow, for we are leaving for Eng- 
land on Monday. No, you are not to speak to David. I 
won’t give you anything again as long as you live — I won’t 
do that in any case, but you are not to speak to David ! ” 

“I don’t want to, Inez. You needn’t get into such a state,” 
said Fernandez. 

“Why didn’t you bring the ring ? Why were you so cruel ? ” 

“I forgot it. That’s a fact!” 

“You’ll bring it to-morrow, or to-night?” 

“I won’t bring it to-morrow morning, I’ll bring it to- 
morrow night, so that you’ll have it any time after ten o’clock 
on Sunday night. Now good-bye, don’t keep me.” 

He turned away. Inez once again believed him. She 
went back to David. 

“How fast you talked,” he said, “and how excited you 
looked. Well, did he tell you anything about your own 
people?” 

“I didn’t ask him.” 

“Then what were you talking about?” 

“Oh, just the sort of thing you’d say to a person who had 
come from your own land, where you hadn’t been yourself 
for so many years.” 

David looked discontented. 

[167] 


A MADCAP 


“I don’t understand you, Inez. I only do hope that you’ll 
be happy at school. And do be a good girl. It would so 
disappoint Mother if you were anything else.” 

“I believe I’m tired after all,” said Inez, losing her colour, 
and suddenly looking limp and dejected. 

“Why should you be that? We have gone no way as 
yet.” 

“Let’s go down and sit on the beach and throw stones 
in the water and see who’ll do it the best.” 

David was very good-natured. He was willing to accede 
to any of Inez’s requests just then. They spent a fairly 
happy evening and returned home in time for supper. 

The next day passed without any special adventure. It 
was Sunday, the last Sunday they were to spend at St. 
Pierre. All their things were already packed. They would 
return to England on Monday. Inez still felt happy. She 
would get her ring to-night and she would never see Fernan- 
dez again. 

They were all sitting round the supper table, and she was 
wondering if she might rush out once more on the terrace and 
get to the shrubbery unobserved by any of her cousins, 
when Hal said in a cheerful tone: 

“I met that Spanish chap.” 

Inez looked up, the others paused in their conversation. 

“He was walking as fast as he could in the direction of 
Fecamp. He shouted something to me, but I didn’t under- 
stand him. He was going away — he had a sort of bundle 
on his back. He is an ugly fellow.” 

A few more remarks passed. Inez said nothing. 

“ Better and better,” ^he said to herself. “The ring must 
be there now. He has gone, and I shall get my darling 
mother’s ring back.” 

She managed to get to the shrubbery unnoticed, eagerly 
lifted the white stone. Alas! there was nothing under it. 
Fernandez had again forgotten to keep his promise! 


[168] 


CHAPTER V 


Briar Hall 

“I do feel so frightened,” said Suzette. 

As she spoke she bent forward and took Dorothy’s hand 
in hers. The three girls, Inez, Dorothy, and Suzette, were 
all on their way to Briar Hall. They had got out at the 
pretty little station of Paignton, and after driving three or 
four miles were approaching a beautiful old place with 
stately trees arching over the carriage drive, and a distant 
peep of deer in a deer-park not far &way. 

“ Oh, how beautiful,” said Dorothy in a tone of satisfaction. 
“Why Suzette, you goose, what are you going to be afraid 
of?” 

Inez had not spoken at all. She sat bolt upright, her face 
wearing a proud expression. Suddenly she bent forward 
and looked out of the carriage window. 

A beautiful, stately house, built in the style of Queen 
Elizabeth’s reign, met her gaze. It was almost completely 
covered with ivy and other creepers. There was a verandah 
running round the sitting-rooms, and a great sweep of lawn 
and flower-beds in front. A few girls were standing near 
as though they were waiting for the occupants of the car- 
riage. Inez put in her head. 

“Now let me have a peep,” said Dorothy. 

She looked out, and exclaimed: 

“How lovely!” 

Then Suzette also looked out. 

“I do hope they will give me a bedroom near you, Dolly,” 
she said. 

“What do you think of it, Inez?” said Dorothy to her 
cousin. 


t i6 9] 


A MADCAP 


“ Think of it! I think this,” said Inez. “I’m going to 
be naughty here. I don’t like the place, and I don’t like 
the lady who is at the head of it.” 

“Oh, Inez! You will try! You have so many people to 
try for. You ought to be good,” said Dorothy, in her 
gentlest tone. 

“I never wanted to come — it was wrong to let me come,” 
said Inez in a sullen tone, and she leant back in her seat with 
a disagreeable expression on her face, which she had not 
worn now for so many years. 

“Somehow,” she said after a pause, “I hate grandeur!” 

“Oh, Inez! And you the owner of Dering Towers!” 

“I can’t help it,” said Inez, shrugging her shoulders. 
“You know when I was there I was very naughty, wasn’t I, 
Susy? What a fright I gave you that time when I asked 
you to be my sister, didn’t I ? ” 

“ You wouldn’t frighten me now if you asked me the 
same question,” said Suzette. 

“No, of course not, for you understand me, and I under- 
stand you. Look here, Suzette, I’m not half so well-in- 
formed as Dorothy, and you are very clever for your age, I 
do hope we’ll be put into the same class.” 

“Then I hope nothing of the kind,” said Dorothy. “I 
should feel ashamed, if I were you. Come, Inez, you must 
be ambitious, you must.” 

“I can’t! It isn’t in me,” said Inez. 

Her thoughts flew back to Aunt Millicent, who was always 
so gentle and kind; to David, her good, elder-brother-cousin, 
and then, with a miserable sense of guilt, to Fernandez. It 
is true she had sold her own property to give him all he 
wanted, but at what a sacrifice. And her mother’s ring was 
gone! The loss of the ring hurt the girl. It seemed to 
her that she could have no luck while that ring was no longer 
in her possession. She wanted to have it back again with a 
pain that made her feel half sick at times. 

The carriage drew up at the door, and the children got out. 

[ J 7°] 


BRIAR HALL 


A servant came to meet them and took them into the house. 

“I will just see you in here, miss,” she said, addressing 
herself to Dorothy, “and then I will let Miss Ferrier know 
you are here.” 

A door to one side of the hall was opened, and the three 
found themselves in a brightly furnished sitting-room, where 
a fire was burning. Already the autumn had begun, a 
rather wet autumn, and the fire was quite grateful to the 
young travellers. Dorothy was standing by it warming her 
hands when the door was thrown open and Miss Ferrier, 
with a smiling face, appeared. 

“Welcome to Briar Hall,” she said to the three girls, 
coming up as she spoke and kissing them. “I have just 
asked Hilda Chichester to look after you this evening. Of 
course you needn’t trouble about any of the school rules to- 
night. This is Hilda.” 

A tall, pale girl neatly dressed in gray came into the room. 
She had a perfectly smooth head, with hair tightly plaited 
and wound round at the back. Her forehead was low, she 
had arched eyebrows and calm brown eyes. Her expression 
was very gentle and ladylike. She came in quietly, and 
Miss Ferrier performed the necessary introductions. 

“This is Miss Inez Dering, this is Dorothy Dering, this is 
Suzette Dering. Will you take them to their rooms and 
introduce them to a few of their companions, and will you 
sit by them at supper, Hilda?” 

“Yes, Miss Ferrier,” said Hilda in a bright tone, and Miss 
Ferrier departed. 

When she had done so Inez gave a sigh of relief. 

“I’m glad she’s gone at least,” she said. 

“Why do you say that?” asked Hilda. 

“Oh, nothing,” said Inez looking at her gravely. “May 
we go to our rooms ? I expe.ct we’d all like to tidy up a bit. 
Wouldn’t you, Dorothy?” 

Dorothy looked annoyed at Inez’s manner, but she said 
in her gentlest and sweetest voice that she would be very 

[i7i] 


A MADCAP 

glad to go to her room, and Hilda accordingly took them 
upstairs. 

One of the special features of Briar Hall was the absence 
of stairs. There was one low, broad flight which led to the 
corridor out of which all the bedrooms opened. There was 
a servants’ wing at another end, and a farther wing used for 
special school-rooms to the left of the building, but no more 
stairs of any sort. 

Hilda tripped on in front of her companions. Presently 
she threw open a door and invited them to enter. They 
found themselves looking down a little suite of three rooms, 
each opening into the other. The rooms were very simply 
furnished in white, — white enamel, white paper, white beds. 
The floors, however, had crimson carpets, which gave relief 
and a sense of warmth. All the windows had lovely views 
of the deer park and the woods beyond. 

“How pretty!” said Dorothy, running up to her window 
and looking out. 

“These are your rooms,” said Hilda. “Of course,” she 
added, “ everything is most lovely at Briar Hall. There 
isn’t a place like it in the whole county, at least we think so, 
and I am sure you will like your rooms. Miss Ferrier 
thought you would like to be together and made this arrange- 
ment specially for you. You must choose for yourselves 
which will sleep in wdiich apartment. This first room is a 
little bit the biggest. There are separate doors to each, so 
you can have your rooms entirely to yourselves whenever 
you want to.” 

“Isn’t it delightful, Inez?” said Dorothy, the colour 
coming into her cheeks. ‘ ‘How very kind of Miss Ferrier! ” 

“But she is quite the kindest woman in the world,” said 
Hilda, looking in some surprise at Dorothy. 

“I am sure of it,” replied Dorothy at once. 

“And I am not,” said Inez. 

“Oh, Inez, you distress me,” said her cousin. 

Inez shrugged her shoulders. 

[172] 


BRIAR HALL 


“Come, Suzette,” she said, “which room will you have?” 

“I’ll have the room that you don’t have,” said Suzette. 
“You are to choose, of course.” 

“No, I don’t see why. I’m of no more importance than 
the rest of you.” 

“Yes, you are, Inez, and you know it.” 

“I’m not. Don’t be disagreeable. Well, if I must, I’ll 
take this one.” 

She chose decidedly the smallest of the three rooms. 
Suzette was about to remonstrate, but Dorothy gave her a 
warning glance. 

“Very well, Inez, if you like that one it will do.” 

Now it so happened that the room was round a certain 
angle, and it had not quite as good a view as the others. 
Inez chose it because she felt inclined to make a martyr of 
herself for the time being. Dorothy did not praise her for 
this act of apparent self-sacrifice, but immediately took the 
best room for herself, allotting the second best to her little 
sister. 

“This is delightful,” she said again, turning to Hilda. 
“ May we have our trunks ? I should so like to begin to un- 
pack to-night?” 

“Old nurse, as we call her, generally unpacks for the new 
girls, but you must do as you like. I’ll ring, and one of the 
servants will bring up your things.” 

The trunks were soon brought, and old nurse, a gray- 
haired, sweet-looking body of about fifty years of age, also 
made her appearance. She won the girls’ hearts at once by 
her pleasant manners and bright, homely face. 

“It is fairly early, you will have plenty of time to get 
settled before the supper bell rings,” said Hilda. “Then 
I’ll come back to you and introduce you to the rest of your 
schoolfellows.” 

She went away as she spoke, and nurse began unpacking 
Inez’s trunk. Inez, after a minute of irritation, sank down 
on a chair and watched her. As she did so the angry frown 

[173] 


A MADCAP 


left her face, and her eyes grew tranquil. Once she put out 
her hand and touched that of the old woman. The old 
woman looked up at her and smiled. 

“My dearie,” she said in a low, purring sort of voice — 
“I hope you’ll be very happy in this beautiful house.” 

“Will you wait on me when I want you?” was Inez’s 
remark. 

“To be sure, yes, my dearie.” 

Dorothy overheard the words, and she breathed a sigh of 
relief. 

“Perhaps old nurse will keep her good,” she said to her- 
self, and she hurried off to see to her own unpacking. Suzette 
followed suit. In reality it was only Inez who secured the 
services of nurse. 

“Dear, dear,” she said, when she saw that the other girls’ 
trunks were empty, and their things neatly put away, “wdiat 
practical young ladies to be sure. But whenever you w T ant 
me, I’m there, my dears. You can ring for me, dearie, 
when you want me,” she continued, speaking wdth special 
affection to Inez. 

Inez ran up to her and kissed her. 

“Once in Dominica,” she said, “when I was small, quite 
small, I had a nurse like you.” 

Nurse smiled, said “God bless you, dear,” and hurried 
out of the room. 

“Now then, Inez, that is much better,” said Dorothy. 
“Ah, there is the gong! Shall we just tidy ourselves and 
get ready to go down to supper.” 

“I have a fancy to make myself look smart,” said Inez, 
suddenly. 

“Why? What do you mean?” 

“The fancy takes me, I mean to yield to it.” 

As Inez spoke she suddenly took off the neat travelling 
dress which she was wearing, hung it up in her cupboard, 
and took from amongst a voluminous number of dresses a 
soft crimson silk dress, which she put on. 

[174] 


BRIAR HALL 


“Oh, not that, it is too showy,” said Dorothy. 

Inez smiled and made no reply. The crimson dress 
suited her and she knew it. It was made very simply, a little 
low at the throat and with elbow sleeves. It came down to 
her ankles. The dress was well cut and gave a certain in- 
describable grace to her young figure. She took down her 
very thick black hair and tied it with a crimson bow just be- 
low her ears. Round her neck she put some very quaint 
oriental beads of considerable value, and then, turning to 
her two companions, announced that was she ready. 

“Well, you do contrive to make us look shabby!” said 
Suzette. “Dolly, mayn’t I put on my pale blue dress, or 
something?” 

“No, no,” said Dorothy. “You look very neat in that 
muslin, and we don’t come to school to wear finery.” 

But Dorothy knew herself that they both looked dowdy 
beside Inez, who, in her crimson dress, looked a most arrest- 
ing sort of figure. 

When Hilda came back for the three girls she evidently 
thought so, but at the same time she said in a low tone : 

“We don’t dress for supper here.” 

“I suppose not,” said Inez, “but I don’t call this dress. 
It is quite an every-day sort of garment.” 

“Well, I hope you haven’t things more remarkable, or 
Miss Ferrier won’t like it,” said Hilda. 

Inez gave a little shrug of her shoulders. The mere fact 
that Miss Ferrier would not like it had been the principal 
reason for putting on that special dress. 

Supper was served in what they called the refectory, a 
long, cool, low room where sixteen young girls were now 
waiting to welcome their companions. Hilda came grace- 
fully forward, and made the necessary introduction. 

“This is Inez Dering,” she said. “Inez, may I introduce 
you to Mary Allen. Mary is our head girl. This is Alison 
Bailey, and this Theodora Craig. Joan, my dear, you shall 
make your necessary bow when supper is over. In the 

[ *75 ] 


A MADCAP 


meantime shall we all talk as though we knew each other. 
This is Suzette Dering, and this is Dorothy Dering. ” 

The girls showed by their eyes that they were very much 
excited and interested, and Mary Allen in particular came 
forward and took possession of Dorothy. Dorothy’s sweet 
and gentle face, her fair complexion, her bright blue eyes 
were all most agreeable to Mary, who could read character, 
and was in herself a very distinguished sort of girl. 

“Will you sit near me?” she said. “Do.” 

As she spoke she pointed to a seat into which Dorothy 
dropped. 

“I know you will like your life here. I don’t think any 
girls in the whole world could be happier than we are. We 
have a good time morning, noon and night, and we learn 
so much. Of course there never was anyone like Miss 
Ferrier.” 

“I have taken an immense fancy to her,” said Dorothy. 
“ I am so glad we are able to come here. Though I expect,” 
she added, “we shall find school a little strange at first, for 
we have never been to one before.” 

“Haven’t you? Then perhaps, as you say, just at first 
you will find certain restrictions a little irksome, but that 
will soon w r ear off, and it is very good to have a sense of dis- 
cipline. It makes life much easier in the long run. How 
old is your little sister?” 

As she spoke, Mary glanced at Suzette. Dorothy said 
that Suzette was thirteen years old. 

“How very pretty she is!” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

“And your other sister? But she is not the least like 
either of you.” 

“She is not our sister, she is our cousin. Her name is 
Inez, and she was born in Dominica in the West Indies. 
Her father was my father’s brother, but her mother was a 
Spaniard.” 

“That accounts for it. But do you think — please for- 
[176] 


BRIAR HALL 


give me — do you think Miss Ferrier will approve of the 
way she dresses ? It is almost as though she were in dinner 
dress. We wear very simple clothes at Briar Hall.” 

“I will speak to her to-morrow,” said Dorothy, a little 
anxiously, “but don’t say anything to-night. She is a dear 
girl, but she is just, if I may venture to say it, a little difficult 
to manage.” 

“I am so glad you have confided in me. A great deal of 
misery is caused at school by girls not understanding each 
other, and her being a foreigner accounts for everything. 
She is wonderfully handsome, don’t you think so?” 

“Perhaps so,” said Dorothy, looking at Inez with new 
eyes, for she had never up to the present considered her 
cousin good-looking. 

“ Of course she is! Why, those flashing dark eyes of hers 
will put out the lights of any of our English eyes.” Mary 
laughed. “And that thick black hair, and — oh, I call her 
very striking looking!” 

“Well, I hope you won’t spoil her, Miss Allen.” 

“Miss Allen!” said the head girl of the school. “I am 
Mary, please. And you — ?” 

“Dorothy,” said Dorothy. 

“Well, we all call each other by our Christian names here. 
I don’t think there is an absolutely naughty girl in the school, 
though of course we have our characters, and I suppose our 
failings. But Miss Ferrier can’t stand real naughtiness, 
and though she doesn’t expel the naughty girl, she contrives 
somehow to get her out of the school.” 

“Does she really? But she can’t expect perfection!” 

“Oh, no, far from that, but what she does expect is that 
the aim of the girl is towards goodness, and that when she 
does commit any faults she should be genuinely sorry. More 
than that no one can expect. But now, you are not eating 
anything.” 

Mary helped her companion to food, and told her a few 
rules of the school, and by and by the meal came to an end. 

[ i n ] 


A MADCAP 


It was then that a tall girl walked up the whole length of 
the room and came to Inez, and said in a low voice with a 
certain deep intonation in it: 

“My name is Philippa Stewart, and I should like to be 
introduced to you.” 

“My name is Inez Dering,” said the Spaniard, looking 
full into the eyes of Philippa and then smiling, she did not 
know why; for Philippa’s eyes were as dark as her own, and 
as large, and her hair was also inky black, and she had a 
proud, erect carriage. 

“I don’t believe you are altogether English,” she said. 

“No, I am proud to say I am also Spanish,” was Inez’s 
answer. 

“I am Italian on my mother’s side. Not very much 
Italian, but I think my grandmother lived and was born 
and died in Rome. Anyhow, I inherit my black eyes from 
her. Shall we be friends?” 

“If you like,” said Inez quite warmly. 

“Then come and walk with me up and down the corridor. 
We have prayers at nine, and it wants twenty minutes to the 
time. I can tell you a few things if you like.” 

Inez did not know why the warm glow still continued 
round her heart, nor why some of the sick sort of fear and 
dislike of the whole place began slowly but surely to vanish. 
When Philippa touched her arm she did not resent the 
friendly motion, and in less than ten minutes the girls were 
walking arm in arm, each chatting eagerly to the other. 

“Yes,” said Philippa, “this is a very good place, and Miss 
Ferrier is the best woman in the world!” 

“I don’t like her,” said Inez. 

Philippa gave her a surprised glance out of her happy 
dark eyes, then she said coldly: 

“Perhaps you will like her all the better because you don’t 
now. Anyhow, the only possible reason for your dislike is 
because she is much too good for you.” 

Inez frowned, then suddenly laughed. 

[' 78 ] 


BRIAR HALL 


U I do like you,” she said heartily. 

“There’s the bell for prayers. Let’s go into the chapel,” 
said Philippa. 

They joined the group of girls who were walking in orderly 
file, two and two, into the pretty little chapel. It was lit 
with candles, one before each of the sort of stalls where the 
girls sat. They formed both congregation and choir. 
There were carved oak canopies over their heads, and a 
beautiful vaulted roof with vine-like traceries on it. The 
east window was made of stained glass, but this could not 
be noticed in the dim light. 

The chaplain of the school read the service and Miss 
Ferrier and the other teachers sat in stalls a little apart from 
the girls. The whole thing was simple and impressive, and 
Inez felt a great calm filling her heart. At such moments, 
when beautiful prayers were read, and beautiful hymns sung, 
it did not seem to matter so much whether there was a dread- 
ful Fernandez Feranzi somewhere in the world; that the 
ring her mother had given her was lost; that Miss Ferrier 
suspected something not altogether to her credit — nothing 
really mattered, for she could be good in spite of circum- 
stances, and there was always God to help. 

When the girls knelt in prayer, the two dark heads so close 
together, Inez felt a great warmth and glow of love towards 
her new friend. As they rose their eyes met. 

“I’m glad I’ve come to school,” said Inez suddenly. 

“And I’m glad to have a friend — a real friend,” was 
Philippa’s answer. 


[ *79 ] 


CHAPTER VI 


“He has not kept his word” 

The next day after prayers Miss Ferrier sent for her three 
new pupils. Suzette was the first to go to her mistress, and 
to submit to a very rigorous and searching examination. 
Not with regard to her morals did Miss Ferrier question the 
little girl, but rather severely with regard to her attainments, 
and Suzette came out fairly well from the ordeal, scoring 
distinctly in her knowledge of French, which was really 
admirable, both in grammar and accent, and ended in finally 
taking her place in the Third Form of the school. She was 
the youngest girl in the form and Miss Ferrier told her that 
that alone ought to spur her on to do great things. 

“But I don’t want you, Suzette,” she said, “to overwork 
or to struggle for any given prize. I want you so to learn 
that you will not forget what you learn. I want you to 
leave this school with a cultured mind. Now, do you know 
what that means?” 

Suzette’s blue eyes were open to their roundest, and she 
answered after a pause that she did not. 

“It means that you understand what you learn, that you 
take it in and make it part of yourself, so that you never, as 
long as you live, forget it, nor the ideas which it arouses 
within you.” 

Suzette shuffled with her feet. 

“Am I talking over your head, dear?” said the mistress, 
drawing the little girl towards her and kissing her. “If so, 
forgive me. You will be longer with me than your cousin 
or your sister, and I do hope that when the times comes for 
you to leave Briar Hall, you will be a woman who can think, 
who can control herself, who can love wisely and on all 

[ i8 ° ] 


“HE HAS NOT KEPT HIS WORD” 


occasions be able to show a right judgment. Now go, there 
are no lessons required of you to-day, but your teachers 
will set you certain work to prepare for to-morrow. ,, 

Dorothy had a still more satisfactory interview with her 
mistress, and was placed in the Sixth Form; and then it came 
to be Inez’s turn. 

Inez had slept well during the previous night, and had 
awakened determined as far as possible to be good. She 
went now into Miss Ferrier ’s presence in a much more 
softened mood than she had supposed to be possible at this 
detested school. Miss Ferrier spoke very kindly to her, and 
when she found that on the whole the girl was ignorant, 
knowing even French in a sort of slap-dash way, and with- 
out any thoroughness, she asked her if she would like to 
have a private mistress to coach her up a little in order that 
she might not be too low down in the school. 

“But why should I be low down?” was Inez’s reply. 

“Because you can’t compete with the girls who are in the 
high forms. I can only place you in the Fourth Form.” 

“There are so few girls altogether in the school that I 
don’t know why you have any forms at all,” was Inez’s 
remark. 

“It is true there are only twenty boarders, but we have 
about thirty day girls,” was Miss Ferrier’s answer. Then 
she looked sadly at Inez and said: t * 

“Are you always going to speak to me in that tone?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Inez, looking a little confused. 

Miss Ferrier looked at her for a minute. There was a 
strange expression in her eyes, she was evidently struggling 
w r ith herself. Then she said: 

“I take a great interest in you, and I would help you if I 
could.” 

“But I don’t want any help, thanks. What a nice girl 
Philippa Stewart is. I am so glad she is in the school.” 

“Philippa? She is one of the girls I love best. Are you 
going to be friends with her?” 

[181] 


A MADCAP 


“We’re both friends already.” 

“Iam glad of it. I will ask her to show you round and 
tell you everything that is necessary. For the present you 
must take your place in the Fourth Form.” 

“Very well,” said Inez, jumping up and preparing to 
leave the room. 

“One minute first, Inez. In this school we consider con- 
duct far above mental acquirements. Conduct comes first 

— mental acquirements next. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“Deceit, underhand dealing, even the slightest deviation 
from the truth is punished by loss of confidence, and if per- 
sisted in by removal from the school. I mention this to you 
as I would to any other girl who comes to Briar Hall.” 

“Did you say it to Dorothy?” said Inez suddenly. 

Miss Ferrier paused. 

“No, Dorothy’s face is enough.” 

“Or to Suzette?” 

“I believe Suzette is truthful.” 

“You think I am not?” 

“ Inez, are you ? Am I wrong ? Are you truthful ? ” 

“I won’t say — only I hate being distrusted. I will say 
one thing now at least — I never wanted to come to this 
school, and I should like to go away.” 

“No, dear, you will stay — I know you will be happy. I 
trust you will. I take a deep interest in you, and I am not 
angry — not the least. Can you not tell me just everything ? 
Why should you make those who love you unhappy?” 

“What do you know about me, Miss Ferrier?” 

Miss Ferrier considered. 

“I will not tell you now,” she said, “but on Sunday next 

— this is only Tuesday — I will ask you to come and have 
tea in my private room, and then, if you like, I will tell you 
what I know. But I will not unless you like.” 

“Is it a command that I should come and have tea with 
you ? ” 


[182] 


“HE HAS NOT KEPT HIS WORD ” 


“It is a request. Will you accept my invitation ? ” 

Inez felt inclined to say no, but then she remembered that 
Philippa would not like it, for Philippa loved Miss Ferrier. 

“Will you ask Philippa Stewart too?” 

“Certainly, if that will make you come.” 

“And if Philippa is there you can’t say anything special 
— anything that would lower me in her eyes.” 

“No, I cannot and will not do anything to lower you in 
your friend’s eyes. Come to tea with me first alone. 
Philippa shall come in afterwards. Now go, dear, go.” 

Inez left the room. 

Lessons went on, but the three new girls sat doing nothing 
particular in their different classes. Afterwards Philippa 
sought out Inez and took her round the place, showing her 
the tennis courts, the bowling green, the hockey grounds, 
etc., etc. 

“Here we play tennis; this is our gymnasium; and this, 
again, is our riding school,” she explained. “Isn’t it a huge 
place, all under cover. We ride here in wet weather. It 
is a great boon. Miss Ferrier prides herself on turning us 
all out as perfect horsewomen.” 

“I shall like that,” said Inez, her cheeks glowing. 

“Isn’t she delightful?” said Philippa. “I hope you will 
soon come round to my way of thinking.” 

“She wants me to go to tea with her on Sunday.” 

“Does she, indeed? That is a great honour.” 

“And she has asked you to come too, only you are to 
come in a little later. Philippa, I want to know — would 
you turn away from a girl if once you found out that she was 
not quite perfect?” 

“Why should I?” said Philippa, in a kind tone. “None 
of us are perfect. Of course,” she added, “it depends on 
the sort of way a girl isn’t perfect.” 

“She might be tempted to conceal things. If that was 
the case what would you advise?” 

“Oh, tell, tell,” said Philippa, in an almost careless tone. 

[18 3 ] 


A MADCAP 


“ There’s no earthly sense in having a weight on your con- 
science when you can so easily get rid of it. Vd recommend 
her to tell. She’d feel as light as air afterwards.” 

“But that is so difficult.” 

The girls walked on down a path which led to the river. 
The river emptied itself about two hundred yards farther 
on into the sea. 

Presently they saw a shabby-looking man pacing up and 
down by the river’s bank. 

“I wonder who that is,” said Philippa. “He is quite a 
stranger here. ” 

The man turned at the moment and gazed with his dark 
eyes full at Inez. She turned very white and clasped her 
hands nervously. 

“Do you know him, Inez?” said her companion. “How 
startled you seem.” 

“I was a little. He reminded me of a man I used to 
know.” 

“He looked like a Spaniard. What a funny glance he 
gave you. I wonder what he is doing here.” 

“I’m sure he’s a horrid man,” said Inez. “Let us turn 
back, let us keep within the grounds.” 

“We must go back to lunch now. Afterward we will 
alll go for a long walk with Miss Jessop and Fraulein Hertz. 
I love walking better than any other exercise, and now that 
the weather is not so hot it is quite delightful.” 

Philippa evidently thought nothing more of the dark man, 
who had given Inez such a queer glance. But poor Inez 
herself was plunged in absolute misery. 

“ He has not kept his word. He has followed me. What 
am I to do ?” she thought. “ Oh, dear, what am I to do ? ” 


[i8 4 ] 


CHAPTER VII 


Dorothy Writes to Her Mother 

The next few days were spent by the three Dering girls 
in getting accustomed to their new life. No life could be 
pleasanter than that which went on at Briar Hall. There 
were no unoccupied moments, all was bustle and activity. 
There was just the right amount of time devoted to pleasure, 
and the right amount of time devoted to sleep, so that all 
could work when they had to work, heartily and with a will. 
Miss Ferrier’s admirable influence pervaded the place. 
She never intruded herself. She allowed her teachers ab- 
solute liberty. Having once chosen them, she knew better 
than to interfere with them. She was fond of saying that 
she had, and she knew it, such penetration of character that 
she had not yet made a mistake in any one whom she selected 
to look after her girls. In consequence all was harmony 
and good will and peace at Briar Hall. 

No one guessed that the slight, dark girl, with the keen 
face, and beautiful, expressive eyes, was to turn the school 
for a short time into a perfect state of topsy-turveydom, for 
Inez was rather shy than otherwise, and she was very fond 
of going away by herself, and just at first she certainly was 
not popular. It is true that Philippa, one of the best loved 
girls in the school, was devoted to her, walking with her, 
talking to her, and trying to draw out all the best that was 
in her. And Inez was heard to say long afterwards that she 
never would have landed from that slough" of despond in 
which she found herself but for Philippa’s strong right hand, 
hearty good sense and invariable kindness. 

The shabby man was not seen again, and Inez began to 
breathe more freely. In spite of herself her lessons were 

[185] 


A MADCAP 


more interesting than they had been when in Normandy, 
and she often felt some faint stirring of ambition within her. 

Dorothy, who was so much higher up in the school, could 
not be as much with Inez as she wished. It is true that the 
girls occupied the same room at night, but they were both 
as a rule very tired and so inclined to sleep, that they did not 
indulge in much conversation. But Dorothy was quite 
happy about her cousin, and on Saturday she wrote as 
follows to her mother; 

“ Darling Mumsy — 

“We love the school. Suzette is as gay as a lark. 
As to me, I could not be happier. I think I may say I have 
never been happier in my life. I am in the Sixth Form, and 
all the girls think that I know a great deal for my age. But 
in this school there is none of that vying each with the other, 
which is so much the spirit of ordinary schools. And I do 
think Miss Ferrier has just the most beautiful character I 
have ever come across, that is, except your own, dearest 
darling. As to Inez, our own dear Inez, you will be glad 
to hear that she also seems quite happy. I have heard her 
singing, and seen her dancing about the grounds, and she 
has made an extremely nice friend, Philippa Stewart, whom 
everybody loves. So I do hope you will be quite happy 
about her, and rested in your mind about us all. I hope 
Miss Ferrier is beginning to win her, for you know she began 
by not liking her much. But she has asked her to tea to- 
morrow afternoon, and afterwards Philippa is to go, and 
that is considered a wonderful honour. 

“ Good-bye for the present. Lots of kisses and a hug for 
darling Violet. Tell Hal that he would not know Suzette, 
she is so happy and jolly and industrious. 

“Your loving daughter, 

“ Dolly.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


Inez Has Tea with Miss Ferrier 

Sunday was the best day of all at Briar Hall. There 
were no lessons of any kind, and the girls were allowed to do 
pretty much what they liked. Provided they went to Church 
in the morning, and to their own Chapel in the evening, 
there were no restrictions whatever upon their pursuits. 
They were expected to be good, they were expected to keep 
the day as it ought to be kept, but if they chose to do other- 
wise they were not reprimanded in any fashion; in conse- 
quence Sunday was much loved and prized by the girls of 
the school, and as they said, they thoroughly enjoyed them- 
selves without the day-girls, who were not, some of ‘them, so 
nice as the boarders themselves. 

On their first Sunday at Briar Hall, the Derings felt a 
curious sense of loneliness. They missed their mother more 
on that day than on any other. The absence of work made 
a curious sort of break, and as the afternoon advanced 
Dorothy was heard to say to Inez: 

1 1 1 wish Miss F errier were asking me to tea. I know every- 
one seems to be enjoying themselves, but all the same I find 
it a little sad.” 

“Then you may take my place — you may go to tea with 
her, and I will take a walk all alone,” said Inez. 

“I couldn’t do that, Inez, and you know it. Darling, you 
are happy at school, are you not?” 

“I’ll tell you that in a week or a fortnight,” said Inez 
slowly. Then she added in a grave voice: 

“I like Philippa. If anybody could make me wish to be 
good here, it is Philippa. You are not jealous, are you, 
[ J S7 ] 


A MADCAP 

Dolly, for you know I don’t see nearly as much of you as I 
do at home.” 

“But you will work hard and get into my class, then we 
shall be together once more.” 

“We can never be together in our acquirements, Dolly, 
for I am very ignorant, and you are so wise. But don’t 
keep me now, for Philippa wants me to walk with her for an 
hour before I go to tea with Miss Ferrier.” 

Dorothy turned from her cousin feeling much cheered. 

“School is doing her good,” she said to herself. “Oh, 
how glad I am that she has made Philippa Stewart her 
friend.” 

Miss Ferrier expected Inez to visit her at half past four, 
when tea would be ready in her beautiful boudoir, and 
punctual to the hour, Inez, in one of her gayest dresses, 
strolled along the corridor towards her governess’s room. 

Now it was one of Miss Ferrier’s peculiarities to wish her 
girls not to be at all remarkable in their clothes. She liked 
neat dress; clothes that fitted well were essential, she con- 
sidered, to opening young lady-hood, but she hated too bright 
colours, and when Inez came into the room now in a dress 
made of a peculiar shade of orange, and with her neck be- 
dizened with beads of various colours, she knew at once 
that her teacher disapproved of her. The dress was made 
out of a piece of silk which had belonged to her mother, and 
Inez herself had given directions about it, ordering the neck 
to be cut somewhat low, and the sleeves to be made extra 
full. Ugly as the colour was in some ways, it suited the 
dark-eyed, dark-complexioned girl, and with her black hair 
tumbling about her shoulders and her eyes looking larger 
and brighter than ever, Miss Ferrier, although she dis- 
approved, could not but own that she made a striking 
figure. 

When Inez came into the room Miss Ferrier pointed to a 
seat, and the girl sat down. 

“I know she hates my frock,” thought the girl, “and I 

1x88] 


INEZ HAS TEA WITH MISS FERRIER 

put it on on purpose. Philippa thought that perhaps she’d 
send me away to change it, in which case I made up my 
mind I wouldn’t come back. Now I wonder what she will 
do?” 

But Miss Ferrier expressed no disapproval. She asked 
Inez to change her seat. 

“Not there,” she said. “Come and sit near me. I want 
you to pour out tea for me.” 

“May I?” said the girl, surprised and thoroughly 
pleased. 

“Certainly you may. I always expect my girls to help 
me on Sundays. I am tired from my week’s work, and I 
like to be waited on, particularly by those I love.” 

Inez, who was holding the teapot in her hand, preparatory 
to filling a cup with tea, suddenly put it down. 

“I wonder,” she said, fixing her eyes on her teacher’s face, 
“if you are a humbug or not?” 

“Really, my dear Inez!” 

“Because you said,” continued the girl, by no means 
abashed, “because you said you liked those you loved to 
pour out tea for you.” 

“And so I do.” 

“Then of course you don’t want me to do it.” 

Inez dropped into her chair, having deserted her post at 
the tea-table. 

“I want you to do it, because you are one of those whom 
I love!” 

“Miss Ferrier!” 

“ It is true, Inez. I know you don’t care for me at present; 
and I don’t ask you to. We cannot force love. But I love 
you, and I am immensely, immensely interested in you. I 
want to be your real friend. Don’t reply now, it is not 
necessary, only when you leave this room to-day, take with 
you the consideration of the fact that your governess, Anne 
Ferrier, has a real love for you — a real and deep love, that 
cannot be lightly disturbed, and what is more, Inez, strong 


A MADCAP 


as you think yourself, I will win your love — yes, your great 
love — before many months are over.” 

Inez did not know why a queer trembling suddenly seized 
her, and why she lowered her long lashes on her smooth olive 
cheek. When she attempted to raise her eyes again, she 
was standing by the tea-tray and filling a cup with tea in her 
very best manner. She handed it without a word to her 
teacher, who accepted it gently, and began to talk on various 
matters. 

The meal soon came to an end, for the two were having 
their tea alone, when Inez suddenly spoke: 

“Do you have a girl like me to have tea with you every 
Sunday afternoon?” 

“As a rule, yes.” 

“And do you talk to her as you talk to me?” 

“Certainly not. Each girl wants her own special con- 
versation, her own special help.” 

“Are you a sort of father confessor?” 

“I hope not, in one sense, and yet in another it might be 
good for the girl if she would tell the one who deeply cares 
for her any thought that is weighing on her mind.” 

“That might be impossible,” said Inez, tossing her head. 

“Come here, Inez.” 

Inez went rather slowly. 

“Sit down here, near me. I don’t want you to look into 
mv face, and yet I have something to say to you.” 

Inez again felt that queer trembling coming over her. 

“ Don’t speak, dear. Just let me speak. I want to assure 
you that I am not angry with you, but that I know — I 
happen to know very well that you sold — ” 

Inez started. She turned for a minute and faced Miss 
Ferrier, then, with a strange sickening at her heart, she 
looked in another direction. 

“You sold some trinkets to a little man called Jacques 
Pirriet at St. Pierre. The reason I know is this: When 
you were coming down the steep hill that led to your villa 
t i 9 o i 


INEZ HAS TEA WITH MISS FERRIER 


on the morning when I was staying with your aunt, I saw 
your chatelaine open at your side and some dirty notes in it. 
I guessed at once that you could not have come by that 
money in the ordinary way, and soon afterwards I found 
myself in Jacques Pirriet’s shop. A very little conversa- 
tion with him revealed to me everything, and I bought back 
the jewels. You would like to have them?” 

Inez did not speak for a minute. Then she got up and 
faced her teacher. 

“No!” 

“Why do you speak in that tone?” 

“I don’t want them — they are yours — you spied on me. 
You had no right to. I am your pupil now, but you spied 
on me, and you had no right to.” 

“You are mistaken, Inez, I had every right. You were 
very soon to be in my charge, and I wanted to know what I 
could of your character. I did not buy back the trinkets 
with any idea of spying on you. I guessed you were in 
trouble, and I wanted to help you. Will you have them 
back now?” 

“No, they are yours. I don’t want them, and I don’t 
want to stay any longer to-night. May I go ? ” 

“You may not go. Your friend Philippa is coming in 
a minute. I was sure when I mentioned this that I should 
hurt you, but I hope when you are calmer you will feel dif- 
ferently. I do not even ask you why you sold them. You 
see how I trust you. But if you could and would tell me, 
perhaps I could shield you from further misery, from further 
depths of deceit.” 

“Oh, this is too much!” said Inez, stamping her foot. 

“No, it is not, Inez. When we do wrong there are always 
difficult times. You must realise you had no right to sell 
your trinkets.” 

“I suppose I may do what I like with my own.” 

“Not without confiding in your kind aunt, Mrs. Dering. 
What had she ever done that you should turn from her ? ” 

[191] 


A MADCAP 


“I couldn’t tell her. But I suppose you did.” 

“I did nothing of the sort. I kept these things to give 
you back when you were my pupil, to assure you that I 
knew something, that I guessed you were in trouble — of 
what nature it is impossible to say, and to be able, further, 
to assure you, that if you would confide in me, I would see 
you out of it. I would put you straight, and help you to — 
to sin no more.” 

“I haven’t sinned — the things were my own.” 

“ When you are calmer you will think differently. Is there 
any chance of your taking me into your confidence ? ” 

“None whatever. Am I the girl to tell things about my- 
self and about my people, to one whom — I hate?” 

“Oh, Inez!” 

The words that came from Miss Ferrier’s lips were wrung 
from her by a sense of pain. 

“You do hurt me,” she said after a pause. 

“I am glad. You had no right to spy.” 

“I can bear your impolite and intemperate words for the 
present, but after to-night they must cease. You are under 
discipline, and you must learn to submit. But even now, 
I tell you, my child — ” 

The rich voice softened, it nearly broke — a hand, so firm 
and strong, was laid upon Inez’s. Inez \ried to snatch hers 
away, but it was impossible. That hand of Miss Ferrier’s 
had a magnetic touch; it imprisoned Inez’s, she felt again 
that trembling which might mean a burst of tears, a softening, 
a giving up of her own wild ways. But no, the softened 
time had not come yet. 

“ I would help you even now ; indeed, I would. If you feel 
disposed to trust me you have but to come to me.” 

No answer, but after a minute Inez did snatch her hand 
away, and stood proud and defiant in front of her teacher. 
Miss Ferrier looked at her for a minute, then she slowly 
got up. 

“I am about to ring for Philippa, and I have asked 
[192] 


INEZ HAS TEA WITH MISS FERRIER 


Dorothy and Suzette to join us. I have sent them a mes- 
sage. We sing on Sunday evenings, and I think you will 
all like it, but before they come, before I ring to summon 
them, I wish to say, Inez, that I have given you your chance. 
I look upon you, until you make up your mind to take me 
into your confidence, as one who has not been quite straight 
in the past. You will submit to the ordinary discipline of 
the school, and if at any time I see any marks of deceit of 
such a nature as would injure others, I shall be obliged to 
ask Mrs. Dering to remove you. Now you know.” 

There was a pause. The head mistress looked at the 
girl. The girl’s eyes, stormy, defiant, full of smouldering 
rage, were turned away. “But even yet you can come to me. 
For a whole fortnight I give you this opportunity, and — 
well, that is all.” 

There was a sigh. Miss Ferrier rang the bell. When 
the happy girls who had received this much valued invitation 
arrived on the scene they found Inez, with flushed cheeks, 
but otherwise apparently quite happy, looking over a book 
of photographs. 

Miss Ferrier was standing by the fire. She turned to 
greet the girls with the cordiality which always made her so 
charming. 

The rest of the evening passed in a sort of a dream. It 
was all music. That was what Inez remembered after- 
wards; music of a sort that she had never heard before; 
snatches from this great melody, from this oratorio, from 
that symphony. The great works of the great masters were 
interpreted by those delicate and skillful fingers. And then, 
after the instrumental music ceased, the vocal began, and 
Miss Ferrier sang, as Inez had to admit to herself, something 
as the angels might sing; such high, clear notes, reaching up 
and up until it seemed that they must reach the very sky. 

Inez trembled. Thoughts of her father, the father who 
wore the angel face, and whose picture was in the gallery at 
Dering Towers, came back to her; and thoughts of the poor 

[ 193] 


A MADCAP 


ignorant mother, lying in her lonely grave in Dominica; 
and then thoughts of her beloved Aunt Millicent, and of all 
the good people who are recorded in history, and all the 
mighty deeds of valiant men, and the noble sufferings of 
men and women, and the deaths of little children. It was 
wonderful how these memories swept over the girl, for her 
whole nature was like a harp, sensitive to each touch, each 
wave of feeling. 

“ Oh, I love her! I love her! ” she said to herself. “ And 
yet no, I hate her! There’s no one in all the w r orld I hate so 
deeply! And yet again I love her! What is the matter 
with me ? I will never tell, I will never confide in her. Oh, 
I wish she wouldn’t sing that! What is it that is tugging at 
my heart? Yes, I love her — I never loved anybody else 
like her, not even Aunt Millicent; but I won’t, I won’t give 
in! I don’t really love her. Didn’t she spy on me ? Shall 
I tell her about poor Fernandez? No, no, no! I will never 
tell. I am too proud. I am awfully sorry I came to school. 
I mean I am just delighted to have come to school — to 
think of being in the same house with her. Oh, there she 
has looked at me, and my heart seems to stop and then to go 
on too fast. I’d do anything for her — I’d be her slave — 
I’d lick the ground under her feet! No, I wouldn’t do any 
earthly thing to please her. Now there’s Philippa looking 
at me. Oh! thank Heaven, the music is over! I’d have 
broken down in another minute.” 

“What are you thinking of, Inez?” said Philippa. 

“Oh, I don’t know — a thousand things,” said Inez, and 
she forced that marvellous expression which only she could 
wear, out of her eyes, which became hard and commonplace. 

Miss Ferrier sighed to herself, and wondered how she 
could win that strange, perverse, and yet lovable nature. 


CHAPTER IX 


The Picnic in the Woods 

The weather was still beautifully fine, and when the girls 
had been between two and three weeks at school there was 
a great excitement in their midst, for a picnic was to take 
place in Clevedon woods about eight miles away. There 
was a kind of Indian summer now, over the land, and the 
trees were still in their glory of autumn beauty. Miss 
Ferrier was fond of giving the boarders an entire holiday 
(allowing the day girls to work without them, for they never 
shared in the amusements of the boarders), and taking them 
out in brakes to several places of interest. Clevedon Woods 
were celebrated for the magnificence of their foliage, and 
also for the ruin of an ancient feudal castle. Each new girl 
who came to Briar Hall looked forward to a picnic in these ■ 
woods as to something particularly exciting, and Inez found 
herself sharing in the pleasure of the others. 

As the happy day o{ the picnic approached, more than 
one girl got out of bed betimes to take envious peeps at the 
sky. All was pronounced favourable, and the brakes came 
round to the door soon after ten o’clock to carry the twenty 
girls to their destination. Four teachers went with them, 
but Miss Ferrier herself remained at home. 

“I shall expect you back not later than six o’clock,” she 
said. “The days are getting so short now, that you must 
not be out longer.” 

Some servants appeared with the great hampers which 
contained food for the auspicious occasion, and a moment 
later the horses were under way, and the happy party were 
off'.' 


[i95] 


A MADCAP 


“This is good!” exclaimed Suzette, who happened to be 
in the same brake with her sister and Inez. “Oh, there’s 
Philippa, too,” she continued. 

Philippa laughed and took a seat next to Inez. 

“I am in luck!” she said. “I asked Agnes Baker to 
change seats with me, and she is so good natured she agreed 
at once. And where is your special friend, Suzette?” 

“Do you mean Mary Temple?” exclaimed Suzette. 

“Yes.” 

“She is in another brake, but I am going to walk with her 
afterwards. Miss Jessop says I may.” 

The girls all chatted, keeping up a stream of eager talk. 
Suddenly a girl from the top of the brake bent down and 
looked at Inez. 

“You know, of course,” she said, “that your yellow dress 
and your crimson have been taken out of your wardrobe. 
You are not to appear in them any more.” 

Inez, who had been enjoying herself vastly, now started 
forward and said angrily: 

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Hebler.” 

“Why are you angry with poor Kate Hebler?” exclaimed 
Suzette, laughing, “ It isn’t her fault.” 

“Then she oughtn’t to tell me disagreeable things.” 

“Indeed you ought not, Kate,” agreed Philippa, “and 
besides it isn’t true, of course.” 

“Well, you wait and see when you get home,” was Kate’s 
remark. “I’ll tell you what I know,” she continued, per- 
ceiving that her statement had made a deep impression. 
“I saw Miss Queen, the superintendent of the bedrooms, 
with the two dresses hanging over her arm. Of course I 
couldn’t mistake them, no one else in the school would dare 
to wear such pronounced colours.” 

“They would become no one else in the school,” said 
Philippa with a laugh. “Dear me, Inez, don’t look so 
angry, I don’t suppose you are parted from your finery 
altogether.” 


[ r 9<5] 


THE PICNIC IN THE WOODS 


“It’s just what she would do,” thought Inez. “I wonder 
I can bear with her. She’s a regular horrid sneak!” 

Philippa touched her on the arm. 

‘ ‘ Come, you needn’t be unhappy now. Forget all about 
that disagreeable story. Tell us something exciting. You 
know you are grand at making up stories.” 

Inez tried to feel appeased, but it was not easy, and the 
thought of the missing dresses rankled in her mind all during 
the drive. But when they got to Clevedon Woods, the place 
was so lovely and the air so fresh, the ground so crisp to walk 
upon, that in spite of herself her anger melted, and she be- 
came as gay and festive as the rest of her companions. 

The girls now planned how they would spend their time. 
The picnic dinner was to take place between twelve and 
one o’clock, they would then visit the old feudal castle and 
have tea at four. The brakes would be ready to convey 
them home at five, and the picnic, the beautiful picnic, would 
come to an end at six. 

“It is all too short! That is what I say,” exclaimed 
Philippa. “These lovely days are just wonderfully de- 
lightful. They give us strength to go on.” 

Dorothy looked at her kind, open face, and again the 
thought came to her: 

“What an excellent companion she is for Inez. Just the 
very sort she wants. It is so good for Inez sometimes to see 
others than ourselves.” 

The picnic dinner was a grand success. The girls laughed 
and chatted, and the teachers joined in the mirth. All was 
happiness and merriment. After dinner they clustered 
together and told stories, to their hearts’ content, and then 
one and another proposed different expeditions. 

“There is one thing,” said Inez, “I must go to Sir Guy’s 
belfry, and the other parts of Guy’s castle. Who is coming 
•with me?” 

“I am,” exclaimed Philippa. 

“And I!” cried Suzette. 


[ 197] 


A MADCAP 


“And I, of course,” said Dorothy. 

One or two other girls also offered to accompany them, 
but the rest had seen the ruins before and were more inclined 
to rest under the trees, and to walk about and pick the 
flowers and ferns in the woods. 

The six girls who had elected to see the ruins, however, 
started off immediately by themselves. Inez and Philippa 
went first, then came Suzette and her friend Mary Temple, 
and Dorothy and a girl of the name of Emma Marshall 
followed in the rear. 

“Let us go fast,” said Inez. “Let us get well ahead of 
the others. Philippa, I must talk to you.” 

“What about?” asked Philippa. 

“All sorts of things. You do sympathize with me, don’t 
you?” 

“Of course I do, dear. I feel that we shall be great 
friends. We seem to have a sort of tie in common.” 

“I wonder,” said Inez, suddenly, looking full at Philippa, 
“if you are the sort of girl, the sort of girl — ” 

“What do you mean?” asked Philippa. 

“There are some who like you only if you are the espe- 
cially good sort — a sort of saint — and there are others 
who care for you whether you are saint or sinner. Now 
I wonder which you are.” 

“Well, to be frank with you,” said Philippa, “I do like 
people who are struggling and who manage to conquer in 
the fight better than those who simply let themselves slide. 
If you were the sliding sort I shouldn’t care twopence about 
you. There, I am frank!” 

“Perhaps I am the sliding sort. But indeed, I don’t 
want to be,” said Inez, thoughtfully. 

“Well, all right. We understand each other.” 

“And you will be my friend and care for me even if I am 
not perfect, provided I try to do right?” 

“That I will,” said Philippa, in a hearty tone. “But now,” 
she added, “don’t let us talk so much about ourselves. 

[ 198] 


THE PICNIC IN THE WOODS 


Miss Ferrier says it makes people self-conscious. Oh, 
aren’t these ruins lovely? When I look at that tower I 
think about Sir Guy and his story.” 

“And what is his story?” 

“He was very unhappy, both in war and love, and in the 
end he met with a most cruel death; for a wicked kinsman 
of his locked him up in the keep of the castle, and history 
doesn’t know what became of him, only to this day you can 
see the ring of the chain which bound him to a great pillar 
in the castle, and the stone is worn away where he used to 
pace up and down. Poor Sir Guy! He was so handsome. 
You can see his portrait in one of the rooms in the castle; 
I wonder if we shall be admitted to the state apartments 
to-day. I’d like to show them to you.” 

Inez was beginning to be quite interested in the subject 
of Sir Guy St. Maurice, when she suddenly saw, standing, 
as it were, in her path, her hated cousin, Fernandez Feranzi. 
He stood perfectly still. Philippa exclaimed: 

“Why, that is the strange man we met the other day. I 
wonder what he is doing. He seems to haunt the place.” 

Inez made no reply. 

“Let us hurry,” she said. “And why should we go by 
this path all the way. Is there no other road to the castle ? 
Do let us run. I — I don’t want to meet that man. I have 
taken a great — I mean he frightens me.” 

“You do look queer!” said Philippa. “What in the 
world is there to be afraid of ? If we go any other way we 
shall get into that long grass and it is rather damp.” 

“Well, you go as you like. I shall go over this grass “and 
get to the castle so.” 

She suddenly put wings to her feet and reached the castle 
by a circuitous path. Fernandez, who was standing on the 
narrow direct road, did not turn, or even pretend to see her, 
and when Dorothy and Suzette came up neither did he take 
any notice of them. Philippa also kept on the path, and 

[ r 99 ] 


A MADCAP 


when Inez joined her she remarked at once on the dangerous 
thing her new friend had done. 

“Why, your feet are quite wet,” she said. 

“Oh, no, they’re not!” exclaimed Inez. 

“But I say they are, and you wear such thin boots. Oh, 
they’re soaking!” 

“Well, I’ll run about and that will warm them. Oh, 
dear, I am glad I didn’t meet that man.” 

“I can’t imagine why you are so afraid of him. He 
seemed quite a harmless sort. There he is still — oh, no, 
he has gone. I wonder where he can be off to now. I’ll 
ask Miss Ferrier this evening if she knows of any Spaniard 
staying in the place.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t. Please don’t,” said Inez, with most 
unnecessary fervour. 

Philippa gazed at her in surprise. 

“ Of course I won’t if you’d rather not. But really, Inez, 
I sometimes find it difficult to understand you.” 

“But all the same you will be my friend,” said Inez, in a 
dreary tone. “You won’t let me go, will you, Philippa. I 
could go very low down, I feel I could, if my friends let me 

go.” 

“What a queer girl you are, Inez; but your extraordinary 
eyes have a great power over me. It would not be easy for 
me to let you go. It wouldn’t really.” 

For the next hour the girls were busily occupied. Inez 
had a wish not only to see the top of Sir Guy’s Belfry tower, 
but the dungeon where he was supposed to have ended his 
miserable and unlucky life. She was then taken into some 
of the few rooms which were still in a state of preservation 
and saw the portrait of Sir Guy himself. Truly his face 
wore all the fascination of a man who had seen much, 
suffered much, loved much, and also lost much. Inez felt 
a curious fascination, a sort of drawing towards it. 

“If Sir Guy were alive,” she said to herself, “he would 
understand me. I think I could whisper to him about things 
[ 200 ] 


THE PICNIC IN THE WOODS 


that no one else would listen to. And I don’t believe that 
even if I drifted, he would let me go.” 

“What are you muttering to yourself?” said Philippa, 
suddenly. 

“Oh, nothing, I am only looking at that picture. I should 
like to see it again.” 

“Well, perhaps you will some day. We’d better go out 
now.” 

But Inez would not stir. 

“No,” she said, “there’s still time. Let me look at the 
picture. Let me stay here and watch the eyes a little longer.” 

“All right, then I’ll go and find the other girls. We must 
be back, you know, in time for our picnic tea. I always love 
the tea hour in the woods better than any other part of these 
delightful days.” 

Philippa ran off and Inez went close to the picture and 
kept gazing up at it. The longer she looked, the more did 
this marvellous piece of painting appeal to her. The man 
seemed to come to life. His eyes first smiled and then 
looked sadly into her eager face. She could also fancy that 
his lips moved, and in another moment she would have even 
thought he had addressed to her some word of consolation, 
when a hand on her shoulder caused her to scream, and look- 
ing round she saw Fernandez behind her. 

“What are you doing here ? How dare you come ? ” said 
the girl. 

“To see you,” he replied at once. “Mayn’t I talk to my 
own first cousin? Don’t be ridiculous, Inez.” 

“But you promised,” said Inez, trembling all over, “if I 
gave you — Oh, Fernandez, you promised. You must go 
away. If the others find you here they will — oh, they will 
tell Miss Ferrier, and I shall be disgraced.” 

“And what is that to me?” said Fernandez sullenly. 
“You only think of your miserable self. I have to think of 
myself, and I want money, and there is no one else who can 
give it to me.” 


[201] 


A MADCAP 


“ But I can’t give you any,” said poor Inez. “ I can’t pos- 
sibly do it. You know I can’t — I haven’t got any. You 
said if I gave you the ten pounds you’d — you’d go away 
and never trouble me again. How can you break your 
word? No gentleman would.” 

Fernandez uttered a laugh. 

“That is all very fine, but a starving man can’t afford to 
be a gentleman. I must get what I can.” 

“And my ring — you never gave me back my ring.” 

“I will keep it as a hostage. I have no idea of parting 
with it at present, I assure you.” 

“Well, you must go away now,” said Inez, almost in an 
agony. “They will come in here in a minute, and they 
will be so astonished. Oh, do, do go! ” 

“What will you give me to make me go?” 

“Oh, I haven’t anything.” 

“Yes, you have — that necklet, that’ll do for a bit.” 

Fernandez suddenly snatched a necklet of fine gold from 
the girl’s neck. 

“‘That’ll do,” he said, slipping it into his pocket. “And I 
won’t sell it here, so you needn’t be frightened. But this 
day week I want you to meet me, and you may as well meet 
me here in this place. These rooms are open to the public 
every Wednesday from two till four, and I’ll be waiting in 
this room with the precious picture, for you this day week. 
If you don’t come I’ll come straight up to Briar Hall and tell 
Miss Ferrier that I am your cousin, and that you aren’t such 
a fine young lady after all. And I’ll make lots and lots of 
mischief. I’ll tell her how you gave me things, and how 
frightened you were.” 

“Oh, go away, go away! I promise! I promise!” said 
Inez, in an absolute white terror, and Fernandez, with an 
ugly laugh, rushed out of the room and disappeared. 

Inez sank down on a chair feeling almost as though she 
would faint. 

“How can I live through this ? ” she said to herself. “My 
[ 202 ] 


THE PICNIC IN THE WOODS 


necklace is gone, and Philippa noticed it when we were 
coming here. She hoped that I wouldn’t lose it. Oh, dear, 
oh, dear! What shall I do? Philippa will give me up if I 
drift. And how can I keep steady or right, or do anything 
that is good, while I am tortured by that dreadful man?” 

“Inez! Where are you?” called a gay voice, and Inez, 
making a great effort, pulled herself together. 

“You wouldn’t forsake me, whatever I did, darling Sir 
Guy ! ” she said aloud to the picture, and then she flew down 
the wide corridor and joined her companions on the 
staircase. 

“Now, Inez, we must hurry back to the others as fast as 
possible,” said Dorothy. “Oh, isn’t this castle delicious? 
And that story of Sir Guy! I shall think of it all night. 
Weren’t you truly fascinated by it, Inez? It is just the 
thing to impress you.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Inez. “But let’s get back to the others. 
Come, Philippa.” 

She ran up to her friend and took her arm. 

“You are looking very tired, Inez,” said Philippa. 

“Am I?” replied Inez. “I’m not tired. I’ve had a 
lovely day.” 

It was Philippa who talked as the girls went back to 
Clevedon woods. Here they found the preparations for 
their picnic tea in full swing. A bright fire was burning 
and one girl was feeding it with little pieces of furze and dry 
bracken. A kettle was soon singing over the cheerful fire, 
and Inez, suddenly feeling cold, she knew not why, bent 
over it to warm her hands. 

“Why, Inez!” cried Philippa. “There now! I told you 
it would happen. You have lost your necklace! ” 

“Oh, no, I haven’t,” said Inez, colouring very much. “It 
must have slipped down under my dress.” 

“Let me see for you.” 

Before Inez could prevent her, Philippa was poking her 
hand all round Inez’s neck. 

[ 2 °3 ] 


A MADCAP 


“It isn’t there,” she said. “You have lost it! Oh, what 
a pity ! What a pity you wore it — such a sweet, sweet neck- 
lace. Girls, we must all search for it.” 

Miss Jessop now came up and expressed her annoyance 
w r hen she heard of Inez’s loss. All the other girls supposed 
that the necklace must have dropped from her neck during 
her walk to the ruins, and Philippa suddenly exclaimed: 

“You must have dropped it when you ran so wildly 
through that long grass. What a dreadful pity! If you 
lost it there you will never find it. We must ask Miss 
Ferrier to offer a reward for it.” 

“What in the world did you run through that grass for,” 
said Dorothy, “when there was such a nice path, and it was 
quite the nearest way to the castle ? ” 

“She took a sort of fright,” began Philippa, but Inez gave 
her an imploring glance. 

“I know,” exclaimed Suzette. “Inez is always so queer. 
Do you know who was on the path? That extraordinary 
man whom we met at St. Pierre, that Spanish sort of fellow. 
Inez can’t bear to hear of Spaniards now, although she is 
half one herself. I don’t understand it, do you, Dorothy ? ” 

“No, dear,” said Dorothy, in her gentle voice. “But don’t 
tease her, love,” she added. 

“Well, we must tell Miss Ferrier, that is one certain 
thing,” said Miss Jessop, “and we must have a reward 
offered ; but you might go on searching until it is time for us 
to return home. I know Miss Ferrier will be very much 
annoyed when she hears of Inez’s loss,” 


[2041 


CHAPTER X 

Inez Spends an Anxious Week 

Miss Ferrier showed no special surprise when she heard 
of Inez’s loss. It was Miss Jessop who said: 

“Inez Dering is a most extraordinary child. Do you 
know what she did ? She would not go the natural, straight 
way to the castle, but rushed through a meadow full of long, 
lush grass. I am afraid she got her feet wet, and when she 
came back again, to have tea with the others, that pretty 
Spanish necklace of hers, which we all noticed and admired, 
was gone.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Ferrier thoughtfully. “Have you any 
idea,” she continued after a pause, “why Inez should have 
decided to go a roundabout way to the castle ? ” 

“Well, one of the children said that there was disagree- 
able strange man, who looked like a Spaniard, on the path, 
and that Inez took a dislike to him and wouldn’t pass him 
on any account. ” 

“Soon afterwards you discovered that the necklace was 
gone?” 

“Yes, don’t you think we ought to have a reward offered, 
Miss Ferrier? It seems very hard that Inez should lose so 
pretty and rare a trinket.” 

“I will speak about it after school this morning,” said 
Miss Ferrier. 

She thought for a little, and just when the school was be- 
ginning to break up for the usual half hour of play, she went 
and stood on the little rostrum and addressed her pupils. 

“Girls, I am sorry to tell you that Inez Dering has lost a 
rather valuable trinket.” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Inez, colouring, and then 

[ 2 °5i 


A MADCAP 

turning white. “It isn’t worth making a fuss about,” she 
added. 

“Hush, my dear, that is just as I think. You wore it 
when you left here, yesterday?” 

“Yes,” said Inez, but then she added in a voice of agony 
which could scarcely be repressed — “It doesn’t matter. 
I’d much, much rather not have any fuss made about it.” 

“Well, girls, I am going to appeal to you. I see that Inez 
doesn’t value things that most of us would consider im- 
portant and worthy of consideration, worth, at least, an 
effort to retain. I do not want Inez to have this trait in her 
character encouraged, and it is my wish that there should 
be a reward offered for the recovery of the necklace. Not a 
very great reward, but a reward of three or four pounds. 
Thus all the people of the neighbourhood will think it worth 
while to search for it in likely and unlikely places, and in the 
end it will probably be brought back to us, for a long chain 
cannot easily be lost, I mean absolutely lost. What do you 
say, girls ? ” 

“Indeed, I agree with you,” said Dorothy, springing to 
her feet and looking full at Miss Ferrier with her kind, 
earnest eyes. “I know the necklace you mean, and Inez 
loves it very much, better than almost all her other treasures. 
It belonged to her mother and was given to her by — ” 

“Oh, hush, Dorothy! What does that matter now?” 
said Inez. 

“What do all the rest of you think with regard to my put- 
ting up a reward for the necklace?” said Miss Ferrier. 

Most of the girls agreed, but Philippa, who was seated near 
Inez, suddenly felt the cold clasp of her new friend’s little 
hand. There was something in the touch of that hand 
which appealed in a curious way to Philippa’s heart. 

“I think,” she said, just glancing at Inez, whose eyes 
were fixed on the ground, “that it ought to be as Inez 
Dering wishes. She, after all, is the person most con- 
cerned.” 

[206] 


INEZ SPENDS AN ANXIOUS WEEK 


“That is a good idea, Philippa. And as you are Inez 
Dering’s friend, and as I am very glad to know that you are 
her real friend, I will take your advice. Inez, you yourself 
must decide. Are we to take steps to recover the trinket, 
or are we to trust to chance to its being restored to you ? ” 

Inez rose to her feet. 

“I would much rather trust to chance,” she said. “I 
hate a — a fuss, and I suppose I was to blame.” 

“Then you really wish me to take no steps whatever?” 

“I would much rather you didn’t.” 

“Very well, Inez,” said Miss Ferrier after a pause. “I 
will take no steps just at present; but if the necklace isn’t 
returned within a week from the present time, I shall be 
obliged to issue stringent enquiries; for remember, my dear, 
you, as well as your possessions, are now in my charge, and 
I cannot allow you to lose your valuable trinkets.” 

Miss Ferrier left the room as she spoke, but just for a 
minute her eyes, piercing and far-seeing, looked full into 
the girl’s flushed face. 

“I hate school! And I hate her!” said Inez to Philippa. 

But Philippa said: 

“Hush!” in a shocked voice, and lessons went on as 
though nothing had happened. 

During the next week poor Inez had many subjects for 
anxious thought. She could not get Fernandez out of her 
head. The girls had now, many of them, come to like her. 
They wanted her to join in their games, and to enter with 
fulness into all their school interests. She would have done 
it, and wfith a heart and a half, but for the memory of Fer- 
nandez, who seemed to fill up the background to all her 
thoughts. At night she dreamt of him. She was unhappy 
whenever she left the grounds, retiring whenever possible 
to her own room. As to Dorothy, she could not bear to be 
with her, she dreaded so much that her cousin would ques- 
tion her. Suzette she thought she could manage. But she 
dreaded Dorothy’s calm blue eyes, her gentle, dignified 
[207] 


A MADCAP 


manner. Dorothy might write home, Dorothy might have 
a talk with Miss Ferrier. Dorothy might do a hundred 
things. Oh, she dreaded Dorothy — the Dorothy whom 
she had so dearly loved, — but she was more and more, day 
by day, yielding to the fascinations of Philippa. Philippa 
was, as it were, winding herself and her own fascinating 
personality round Inez’s lonely little heart. To win 
Philippa’s good opinion, Inez felt that she would do a good 
deal. For her sake she learnt her lessons thoroughly; for 
her sake she took pains with her music, her painting, her 
other accomplishments. When Philippa whispered to her: 

“I don’t much like that dress,” or “I don’t much like the 
way you have done your hair,” or “the way you are speak- 
ing,” or anything else, Inez was immediately willing to im- 
prove. She was in a furious passion in her heart of hearts 
when she found that the dresses with which she had meant 
to dazzle her companions had been removed from her ward- 
robe, but when Philippa told her not to mind, they were not 
lost, but only unsuited to her present life, she made no fuss 
whatever about them. Also, when Philippa talked of Miss 
Ferrier, and Philippa adored the head mistress, Inez was not 
unwilling to listen. 

One day, it was the very day before the one when she was 
to meet Fernandez, the two girls were pacing up and down 
in a distant walk about half a mile away from the house. 

“I know all you would say, and I feel a good deal of it 
myself,” said Inez. “She can be fascinating, there are 
times when I own it, but at the same time, Philippa, she will 
never really love me, and I shall never really love her. Oh, 
Philippa, be my friend, and don’t insist on my liking Miss 
Ferrier as well.” 

“ One can never insist on anyone liking another person,” 
said Philippa. “You will do your best, I am sure, to be 
good. I see you are doing that, and I love you for it.” 

“Philippa,” said Inez suddenly, “I do so want to ask you 
one question.” 

[208] 


INEZ SPENDS AN ANXIOUS WEEK 


“What is that?” 

“Do you remember what you said to me as we were on 
our way to Guy’s Castle?” 

“Well, I said a good many things.” 

“Oh, there was one special thing you said.” 

“Was it just before we met that horrid Spaniard ?” 

“Yes, yes, but don’t talk of him.” 

“Inez, only that it is really impossible, I should think 
there was some mystery about that Spaniard, from the way 
you go on.” 

“Don’t talk of him,” said Inez. “It isn’t that — but 
don’t you remember w T hat you said — that if I were to drift 
and no longer try to be good, you’d give me up ? ” 

“Oh, you won’t drift, dear, dear Inez,” said Philippa in a 
most affectionate tone. “ Oh, you don’t know how dreadful 
that is. Once we had a girl here — how well I remember 
her! She is no longer in this world, and oh, she was very, 
very fascinating. In some ways she reminded me of you 
and she used to try to be good one day, and the next she 
would drift, and she went from bad to worse. Oh, yes, you 
may as well know her Christian name — she was called 
Maggie. Poor, poor Maggie! Everyone was fond of her. 
She could do what she liked with us. It was just her merry 
ways and the twinkling of her brown eyes and the way her 
white teeth used to flash when she laughed. And oh, she 
had such a laugh, it was like bells ringing, it was sweet! 
She was sweet herself! But she did drift. She did some- 
thing that turned everybody against her, and she was sent 
away, not expelled, you know, oh, not that. We were all 
very unhappy the day Maggie left. I saw her just as she 
was getting into the cab which was to convey her to the 
station. Miss Jessop went with her, but Miss Ferrier was 
nowhere to be seen. Maggie was as white as a sheet, but 
she held her head very high as she went, and she looked de- 
fiant, and she said: 


[209] 


A MADCAP 


tlt Don’t kiss me, or say good-bye, I am not good enough 
for any of you.’ 

“And then they took her away. I don’t know to this 
day exactly what she did, but it was something that could 
not be forgiven, at least so Miss Ferrier said, and she told 
us we had better not talk of her. Well, what do you think ? 
One day, about a month later, Miss Ferrier called us all 
into the schoolroom, and she said she had something to tell 
us, and that it was something very, very terrible. Oh, 
how white she looked ! And how our hearts seemed to stop ! 
And there was a sort of hush, and then she said — ‘ Maggie 
is dead. She caught a fever and she is dead, and in the 
grave; those things that were hard to forgive, are forgotten. 
And girls — ’ 

“ She did not add any more, for her voice broke down and 
we all sobbed. We sent white flowers to put on her grave, 
and we weren’t ourselves for a long time. But she drifted, 
Inez, that is what happened to her. And then I made up 
my mind that never, never, would I take a girl for a friend 
who could not control herself, a girl who would deliberately 
give up good and choose evil. That is what I thought.” 

“Yes, it was very natural,” said Inez, in a low, strained 
voice. “That is rather a sad story,” she added. “Poor 
Maggie! And her dying afterwards!” 

“There are no words for the sadness of it. I was quite 
a little girl when it happened, but I shall never forget it; 
there are only a few girls in the school who remember it too, 
for most of those who were here in Maggie’s time have gone, 
but I, at least, shall never forget her.” 

Inez did not say any more. 

It was during that night that Inez had to make up her 
mind. She had something very difficult to do. . She had to 
go away the next day, unknown to her companions, in order 
to meet her cousin Fernandez Feranzi in the room where 
Sir Guy’s picture was exhibited at Guy’s Castle. She had 
been thinking all during the past week how she could manage 
[210] 


INEZ SPENDS AN ANXIOUS WEEK 


this, and at last it occurred to her that there was no way to 
manage this secret mission except by an act of grave deceit. 
She had noticed amongst other things, that Miss Ferrier 
was exceedingly particular with regard to the health of all 
the girls, and it occurred to her that if she pleaded headache 
she would be able to go up to her own room and stay there 
for some hours undisturbed. She intended, therefore, to do 
this. She would plead a very bad headache, and afterwards 
slip away to Guy’s Tower. The walk was a long one, far 
too long for her to undertake, but she knew that an omnibus 
left the village, once every day, to take people to Guy’s 
Tow r er, during the summer and autumn months, and she 
intended to be at the village to take her place in the omnibus 
at two o’clock. All the teachers and pupils at Briar Hall 
would then be occupied with dinner, and she could get to 
her destination without anyone noticing her. She would 
put on an old shady mushroom hat, and her quietest clothes, 
and trust to luck that she w’ould meet no one who would 
recognise her. The whole scheme was daring, but on its 
success she fancied all her future depended. If it failed, 
all would be lost. Miss Ferrier might punish her so severely 
that she would dismiss her. She, too, might leave the school 
as Maggie had done — Maggie, the girl who was in her grave 
— and Philippa would scorn her memory and spurn her 
from her heart for ever. 

“I like her — she is the first girl I have ever greatly de- 
sired to have as a friend,” thought Inez. “But she won’t 
stand me if I am wicked, and I suppose I shall be wicked 
when I creep away like that, and jfretend to be ill, when I 
am not ill. But I must do it — yes, I must do it.”’ 

Inez slept badly that night, and in the morning it was 
no pretence to say that her face was white, and there were 
dark shadows under her eyes. She even felt with a certain 
sense of relief that her headache was not quite imaginary, 
for her brow did ache, and she had a sense of weariness all 


A MADCAP 


over her. When she went into Dorothy’s room, Dorothy 
at once remarked this fact. 

“Why, Inez, you are not looking a bit yourself. Is any- 
thing the matter?” 

“I have a headache,” said Inez at once. 

“Indeed, you look as though you had. Won’t you go 
back and lie down, I will ask Miss Jessop to see that some 
breakfast is sent up to you. You are not fit to go down 
stairs.” 

“Oh, yes, I’ll manage. I musn’t miss all my lessons,” 
said Inez. 

Dorothy did not say any more and Inez presently joined 
her fellow pupils downstairs. She did eat some breakfast, 
but more than one girl remarked on her tired and weary 
appearance, and when Inez said that she had a headache 
they all quite believed her. As to Philippa, she was full of 
commiseration. 

“It’s just too bad,” she said. “For what do you think? 
What do you think ? Oh, Inez, I wonder if it would do you 
any harm.” 

“What?” asked Inez, impatiently. 

“Miss Ferrier is going to give us another delightful holi- 
day. She says winter will be on us before long, and that we 
really must have another day’s outing. So we are to 
have no lessons, but to start by the eleven o’clock train for 
Farringday. You know there is a most marvellous mu- 
seum at Farringday, and also some caves, that go ever so 
far under the earth, and we are to go through the caves, 
and to look through the museum, and to have lunch in a de- 
lightful coffee shop in the town. Oh, you must come, you 
must!” 

On another occasion Inez would have been all too full of 
rapture at the thought of this fascinating outing, but now 
all she could own to was a sense of relief. 

“I needn’t pretend much after all,” she thought. “It 
would be but to say I am not well, which is true, to stay at 
[212] 


INEZ SPENDS AN ANXIOUS WEEK 

home, and afterwards to glide away unnoticed by anybody. 
This is a relief!” 

She almost laughed at the sensation, but then remember- 
ing herself she said : 

“My head does ache very badly. I hope Miss Ferrier 
won’t insist on my going.” 

“Of course she won’t. There’s no one ever kinder than 
Miss Ferrier is when we are really ill, and you certainly look 
ill, Inez.” 


[213] 


CHAPTER XI 

A Secret Visit to Sir Guy’s Castle 

Between ten and eleven o’clock all the boarders, with 
the exception of Inez, started for Farringday; but just be- 
fore they left both Dorothy and Philippa came into the little 
girl’s room. 

“Oh,” said Dorothy, “I never saw you look so white be- 
fore, and how black the shadows are under your eyes.” 

“ I just want a rest , 9 9 said Inez. “ Don’t worry about me, 
please, Dorothy. Go and have a happy day and forget 
me. By the way,” she added, “what time will you come 
back?” 

“We are certain to be back by six,” said Philippa. “I 
hope you will be quite well then, and downstairs, and able to 
listen to all our adventures. If I can scrape up a few pence 
— but I am always poorer than a church mouse — I will 
bring you some little trifle out of the museum. If I don’t, 
you will know it’s because my pence have filtered away like 
water. Yes, we’ll be back by six, and not a minute later.” 

Inez did not make any reply. 

“By the way,” said Dorothy, as they were leaving the 
room, “Miss Jessop is going to stay at home to look after 
you. I heard Miss Ferrier giving her directions.” 

“But I don’t want her to stay, indeed, I don’t,” said Inez. 

“Whether you want her or not, she is going to stay,” re- 
peated Philippa, and then she went up to her friend and 
kissed her, and the next minute she was running downstairs 
quickly after Dorothy. 

“Do you think she is really ill?” asked Philippa. 

“I don’t know. She looks rather queer.” 

“She certainly does. Is she subject to these attacks?” 

[ 2I 4 ] 

% 


A SECRET VISIT TO SIR GUY’S CASTLE 


“I have known her to get one or two. She doesn’t have 
them often.” 

“Well, I wish she were coming with us. She is such a 
jolly sort of girl, so out of the common,” said Philippa. 

“I am very glad you like her, Philippa; it will be the 
greatest possible help your taking a fancy to her, and her to 
you. She has been an anxiety to Mother. Oh, of course 
we all love her most truly, but she has been brought up dif- 
ferently from the rest of us.” 

“I know that quite well, and it is just because there are 
so many difficulties in her character that I have taken a fancy 
to her,” said Philippa. “But here come they brakes. We 
must get in as fast as ever we can.” 

The merry party drove away, and Inez, whose window 
was a little open, heard their laughter floating on the breeze. 

“How gladly I could have gone with them,” thought the 
poor girl, “if it weren’t for that detestable Fernandez. 
Why did I ever believe that he would let me alone ? Even 
now I don’t know how I am to get to Guy’s Castle. If they 
have left that tiresome Miss Jessop in the house, how am I 
ever to slip away without her knowing? Let me think. 
Oh, dear, oh, dear! In Dominica girls had often to plot 
things, and they managed quite cleverly; but somehow I 
feel as though everything must go wrong. I am so frightened, 
and I have a real headache. I wonder if it is a comfort to 
have one or not.” 

Miss Jessop’s steps were heard in the corridor, the door 
opened, and she came in. She was a tall, slender, somewhat 
precise woman, but she was very kind hearted, and as her 
duties to-day consisted in looking after Inez, she went to her 
and felt her forehead, laid a light wrap over her, and then 
sat down by her side. 

“Well, dear, is your head any better?” 

“No, thank you, it’s worse.” 

“Miss Ferrier told me if it continued bad I am to give 
you a dose of bromide.” 


[215] 


A MADCAP 


“I don’t wish for medicine,” said Inez languidly. 

“But it will soothe your head and put you to sleep.” 

“Oh, would it really, and would you go away and let me 
have a long sleep all by myself?” 

“Well, dear, if you don’t wish me to sit in the room I can 
go away. I have plenty to do. In fact, I should greatly 
like to write long letters for the Indian mail. But I could 
wTite them in this room, and then you could call me if you 
wanted anything.” 

“I shouldn’t sleep a scrap if you were in the room. I 
shouldn’t really, Miss Jessop. Please give me the bro- 
mide and I will go off to sleep. And go away, please, 
won’t you?” 

“Well, dear, I won’t go just yet. I will wait and see if 
your headache passes away without having recourse to any 
medicine. If by one o’clock it is still bad, I will give you a 
dose and then leave you to yourself.” 

Inez remembered that the omnibus left the village at a 
quarter to tw r o. She thought, therefore, that this plan would 
do nicely. She would get Miss Jessop out of the way, and 
then slip down through the house, locking her door after her. 
If Miss Jessop came up and found the door locked she would 
not disturb her. Inez would be as short a time as possible 
at Guy’s Castle; get back, and trust to luck to be able to 
return to her own room without anyone seeing her. She 
would then pretend that her headache was quite gone; that 
she had had a long, enjoyable sleep, and be ready to join 
the others on their return. 

These thoughts flew with great rapidity through her brain. 
She became a little more cheerful, and said in a low tone: 

“How beautifully you knit. How fast your fingers move.” 

“Ah!” said Miss Jessop, well pleased. “I am very fond 
of knitting. It is such a soothing sort of occupation. My 
poor mother taught it to me when I was quite a little child,” 

“Is your mother dead, too?” said Inez, after a pause, 

“Yes, dear, she has been in her grave a long time.” 


A SECRET VISIT TO SIR GUY’S CASTLE 


“My mother has been in her grave for more than four 
years,” said Inez, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“Would you like to tell me about your mother, dear?” 
asked Miss Jessop. 

“Oh, not for worlds!” said Inez. Then she added after 
a pause : “ Have you been in the school long ? ” 

“Yes. I have been here for ten years. I am quite the 
oldest of all the teachers. In fact, I seem to belong to the 
place. I don’t think I could live anywhere else.” 

“And are you very fond of Miss Ferrier?” 

“It isn’t a case of being merely fond of her,” said Miss 
Jessop, laying down her knitting and looking straight into 
Inez’s face, “it is a question of the deepest respect, and a 
most strong admiration. Miss Ferrier is like no other 
woman I have ever met. ” 

“She has a sort of fascination, hasn’t she?” said Inez. 
“Perhaps that is so, but I don’t like her, you know.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things, they pain me,” 
said Miss Jessop. 

Inez went on as though she had not heard. 

“Once when she sang I felt the fascination,” she said 
slowly. 

“How strange you look, Inez,” said Miss Jessop, glanc- 
ing full at her. “You remind me of a girl who was once at 
the school — oh, that was a very sad story.” 

“ Do you mean Maggie ? ” asked Inez suddenly, the colour 
flushing her checks. 

“Yes, but what do you know about her? Maggie 
Travers — yes, that was the girl.” 

“I know about her — Philippa told me. Am I really 
like her?” 

“Something, only she was fair. It is in manner you re- 
mind me of her.” 

“She did something very dreadful, didn’t she?” 

“We don’t speak of the faults of the dead,” said Miss 
Jessop. 


[ 2I 7 ] 


A MADCAP 


She rose to her feet. Then she came close to Inez. 

“She drifted, she went wrong. God took her to himself. 
I trust her sins are now all forgotten. Let her be a warning 
to you, Inez, for your temperament is something like hers. 
She might so easily have chosen the better part, but she 
chose the low, degrading one. But we won’t speak of her 
faults, for, as I say, death covers a multitude of sins.” 

Miss Jessop left the room. 

“Try and go to sleep,” she said. “I will be back with 
you presently.” 

Inez lay feeling hot and uncomfortable. She was not ill 
enough to keep lying down, and yet she knew she must make 
the most of her slight headache, which gradually, however, 
in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, left her. The day 
was a beautiful one, the sun was streaming into the room. 
Inez was an active girl and hated forced inaction. She tossed 
from side to side of her pillow, and presently began to feel 
very hungry. It would not do to be hungry, she would be 
expected to come down and eat. She remembered, however, 
that she had some biscuits and some French confectionery 
in one of her drawers. She would eat as many of these as 
she could while Miss Jessop was safe enjoying her own 
dinner. 

Precisely at one o’clock Miss Jessop appeared. 

“Well, how are you?” she said. “Any better?” 

“Oh, no,” said Inez at once, “I feel much worse.” 

“Then you must have the medicine. I felt somehow that 
you would require it, but you don’t look so feverish, although 
I see you have been very restless. A good sleep will restore 
you. Can you fancy any dinner ? I have a delicious little 
grouse downstairs. I could send you up some of it.” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t eat it,” said Inez, who was really 
dying to devour the grouse, but did not dare to say so. 

“Well, then, dear, drink off your medicine. I will draw 
down the blinds and you shall sleep.” 

“You won’t disturb me, you won’t come to call me, will 
[218] 


A SECRET VISIT TO SIR GUY’S CASTLE 

you? Once I had medicine like this, and some one called 
me suddenly, and I got very ill.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you. You may sleep 
on till four o’clock.” 

“Oh, thank you,” said Inez joyfully. “I shall be quite 
well by then.” 

She wondered if she could possibly be back in her room 
by four. 

“I may sleep on till five,” she said. “You won’t call me 
a minute sooner than you can help. I feel drowsy, and I 
slept so badly last night.” 

“Well, drink your medicine, dear. Here it is.” 

Inez swallowed it. Miss Jessop turned her pillow, drew 
down the blinds, and left the room. Inez lay perfectly still 
until the sound of her teacher’s footsteps died away, then she 
sat up in bed. The medicine she had swallowed was fairly 
strong, and in all her calculations she had not remembered 
that she might be sleepy in reality, and find it ^difficult to 
keep awake. She knew she had little time to lose if she were 
to slip away to the village. 

She rose, therefore, went once more to her sadly dimin- 
ished supply of jewellery, took out a trinket or two, slipped 
them into her pocket, and then, after devouring two or three 
French sweetmeats and a couple of biscuits, softly opened 
the door of her room. The corridor where the girls slept 
was in a wing all by itself. There was a back staircase lead- 
ing down to a side entrance which opened right on to the 
shrubbery. Inez hoped that she could run down here with- 
out anyone perceiving her, for Miss Jessop would be enjoy- 
ing her lunch at that moment, and the servants never ap- 
peared in the girls’ wing. 

She stepped on to the landing, and softly locking the 
door behind her, slipped the key into her pocket. Now 
she felt that she had burnt her boats. On tiptoe, she went 
all along the landing, and ran down the stairs. A minute 
later she rushed through the open door and was in the 
[219] 


A MADCAP 


shrubbery. Her heart was beating fast. Her scheme was 
succeeding beyond her wildest hopes. No one had seen 
her go. No one would disturb that silent room, where she 
was supposed to be sleeping, before four o’clock at the earli- 
est. She might be back then. At any rate she felt certain 
that no measures would be taken to force her door before 
five, and by then she would certainly have returned. 

Inez had very carefully dressed herself for this special 
and most dangerous occasion, and in her mushroom hat, 
with a somewhat shabby cotton frock, a little old-fashioned 
cape over her shoulders, cotton gloves on her hands, and 
shabby boots on her feet, she hoped that no one would recog- 
nize her as one of the girls from Briar Hall. She did not 
count, however, on her dark and remarkable face, on her 
coal black hair, and on her great, soft, beautiful eyes, unlike 
the eyes of any English girl who was ever born. 

People stared a good deal at the foreign- looking girl when 
she entered the active little village which went by the name 
of Roslyn; but Inez had too lately come to Briar Hall to be 
recognised immediately as one of the girls, and people only 
said to themselves that she was a stranger who had come to 
these parts. One man, who happened to be a grocer, said 
to his wife that he thought that queer outlandish chap, that 
Spaniard, who lodged over the blacksmith’s, must have a 
relation in the shape of a young sister or daughter, living in 
the place. 

No special remarks were made, however, and Inez was 
allowed to come up to the omnibus without any comment. 
It was standing just outside the Sign of the White Swan, 
waiting for its passengers. When Inez appeared it was 
empty. She got in quickly and took her place at the 
farthest corner, turned her back to the door and sat looking 
out. A clock, just over the Sign of the White Swan, wanted 
five minutes to a quarter to two, but Inez trusted that the 
omnibus would start very soon. She was all too anxious to 
get to her destination. The effect of the bromide which 
[ 220 ] 



“ ' I’m a stranger here.’ said Inez 


M 


(p. 22 i) 





A SECRET VISIT TO SIR GUY'S CASTLE 


she had swallowed gave a sort of languor to her limbs, and 
she had a great longing to lie down and sleep. That, how- 
ever, could not be thought of. She must fulfil her odious- 
and intolerable mission before any rest could come to her. 
Oh, if only she could manage it! If only she could manage 
to persuade Fernandez to quit the place, and if she could 
arrive back in her room before Miss Jessop missed her! 

She now became almost agonisingly impatient to start on 
her way, but the people who belonged to the village of 
Rosyln, and in particular those who frequented the Sign of 
the White Swan, were never in a hurry about anything, and 
it came to be very nearly five minutes to two before the 
omnibus moved slowly in the direction of Guy’s Castle. 
The only occupant besides Inez was a stout, elderly woman, 
carrying a huge basket on her arm. She moved up close to 
the girl and sat down opposite to her. 

“Eh,” she said, bending towards Inez and speaking wfith 
great curiosity, “I don’t seem able to name you. Now 
what do you call yourself?” 

“I’m a stranger here,” said Inez, who for reasons of her 
own did not wish to say anything about herself. 

“Maybe you’re a sort o’ relation o’ that dark foreign 
chap, who makes hisself so disagreeable o’ nights.” 

Inez made no reply. The woman looked at her more 
keenly. 

“You’re a bit drowsy, my dear, I take it. Have a head- 
ache? Now do tell me?” 

“I have a little,” said Inez. 

“And you’re going along of I — I live close to Guy’s 
Castle. Eh, it’s a pretty bit of property, that. ” 

“Yes,” said Inez. 

The omnibus was now going fairly quickly, and she felt 
more comfortable in her mind. 

“Can you tell me,” she said suddenly, “when the next 
omnibus goes back to Roslyn ? ” 

“Well, my dear, it’s in a matter of half an hour arter we 
[221] 


A MADCAP 


gets there. There’s one goes along back, and puts yer down 
at Rosyln, at twenty minutes past the hour of four. But 
if you miss that there ain’t another for a good two hours. 
You gets to Roslyn at a quarter to three, and you starts back 
agen at half past, and you gets, you may say, put down at 
the Sign of the White Swan at about twenty minutes past 
four. That’s it, my dear, that’s it. ” 

“Thank you,” said Inez. 

She wondered if it were possible for her to reach the 
Castle, find herself in Guy’s own chamber, where his por- 
trait looked down upon her, to conclude her business with 
her cousin Fernandez, and to be in the omnibus by half past 
three. The woman, Mrs. Kepper by name, looked once 
again at the little girl. 

“She ain’t Jthe common sort, and she don’t speak com- 
mon,” said the good woman to herself. “I don’t believe 
for a moment she belongs to that foreign chap, but her com- 
plexion’s much the same. Mortal dark! I don’t admire 
it for my part.” 

By and by the omnibus drew up at its destination, and 
Inez got out. 

“You’re for the castle, my dear?” said Mrs. Kepper. 

“I am,” said Inez. 

“Well you go straight forward, and you’d better take the 
next bus back, for if you don’t you’ll not get one till six, no, 
not a minute sooner. And now, miss, go along and enjoy 
the view. It’s strange that a little lady like you should be 
all by yer lonesome. I wonder you couldn’t get a mamma, 
or papa more like, to come along with yer.” 

“I haven’t got either a father or a mother,” said Inez. 

Mrs. Kepper held up her hands. 

“Poor little orphan! it’s I that am sorry for you,” she 
said. 

Inez bade her good-bye and began to run as fast as she 
could in the direction of Guy’s Castle. Her heart beat 
quickly, and she suddenly remembered that she had nearly 
[ 222 ] 


A SECRET VISIT TO SIR GUY'S CASTLE 


starved herself during the part of the day that had gone by. 
She had been afraid to eat any breakfast, and had, on pur- 
pose, abstained from lunch. The sweetmeats and biscuits 
with which she had endeavoured to stay her appetite were 
not specially nourishing, and as she had to go up a very 
steep hill to reach the castle, her heart began to beat un- 
comfortably fast. But what mattered that, when all her 
future was at stake ? 

She reached the castle, and the custodian let her pass 
with a nod of half recognition, although he was puzzled to 
know where he had seen her before. 

“Where are you going, miss?” he called after her. 

“I want to see the state apartments, and in particular 
the room with Sir Guy’s portrait in it,” replied Inez. 

He made no comment and she went on up the worn stairs, 
and down one passage after another, until at last opening 
a door wide, she found herself in the room with the portrait. 

She had half feared, half expected, to see Fernandez wait- 
ing for her. She had hardly any time to spare, only enough 
to give him the trinkets, to demand her precious ring, and 
then to go. But there was no one in the room. The por- 
trait, however, with its face of bewitching sweetness, its 
appealing eyes, drew her just is it had done before. The 
eyes seemed to say : 

“Come to me and tell me your worries. When I was on 
earth I had my bad times. I, too, drifted as you are drifting. 
Now come and tell me all about it.” 

Inez felt the old drawing. She closed the door softly and 
went up to the portrait and clasped her hands. 

“Oh, Sir Guy, Sir Guy, I am the most miserable girl,”, 
she began, and the eyes that looked down at her became 
sweeter than ever in their expression. 

“It isn’t worth while drifting,” they seemed to say. 
“Stop while you can. The road gets very steep at the end, 
very, very steep. If you go on that path you cannot stop, 
however anxious you are. You have to go on. Stop be- 
[223] 


A MADCAP 

fore you get to the steep incline in the road. Stop, I be- 
seech you!” 

It was just at that moment that the door behind her 
opened, and Fernandez, looking more disreputable and 
more untidy than ever, entered. 

“Ha!” he called out in Spanish, “so I have caught you, 
Inez. Well, and what have you brought your poor old 
cousin to-day?” 

“I want my ring, please, Fernandez. And I want you to 
go away. I won’t give you anything until you promise.” 

“Then you’ll stay here for some time,” said Fernandez. 

“Oh, I can’t, I must catch the omnibus back to Rosyln, 
and you can’t keep me, you daren’t!” 

“Oh, daren’t I?” said the man roughly, and he went to 
the door and turned the key, a very heavy, massive one, in 
the lock. 

“Now, missie,” he said, sitting down on the low window- 
sill, “you and I are pretty comfortable, I take it. We’re 
all alone, too. I haven’t had the pleasure of being alone with 
you, my beautiful cousin, for several years, not since you 
were a little thing, and I dandled you on my knee. Come 
and sit near me, little Inez. After all I am your cousin. 
Your mother and my mother were sisters. They’re both 
dead now, dear angels. They have both done with the 
things of time, and even money isn’t of any importance to 
them now. But you and I, little Inez, we are first cousins; 
we ought to be the best of friends, ought we not ? ” 

“You must let me go, Fernandez,” said Inez, feeling that 
everything on earth, everything in her whole future, de- 
pended on her keeping cool. “I can’t remain another 
moment. I shall be found out. I shall be disgraced. I 
shall be expelled.” 

The man laughed an ugly laugh. 

“And what does that matter to me?” he said. “Why 
should you have everything and I nothing? Here am I, a 
beggar on the earth, living from hand to mouth, forsooth, 
[224] 


A SECRET VISIT TO SIR GUY'S CASTLE 


even if I get a meal at all in the day; and here are you, my 
own first cousin, with a lot of money and a beautiful house, 
and living in a first-class school where you pay — oh, you 
pay down in fine style at your school and it doesn’t matter. 
And there are your cousins and your aunt — your English 
cousins and your English aunt — living on you, and you don’t 
care a bit — not a bit. I tell you what. I won’t put up 
with this. I won’t! I’m going to have my share. If they 
live at Dering Towers, so will Fernandez. Fernandez 
Feranzi has as much right to reap the fruit of your riches as 
they have, and so they’ll find. We’ve got to make arrange- 
ments, little Coz, so just you take things easy. But for 
goodness sake stop staring at that picture! I’ll run my 
knife into it — I’ll slit the canvas open and destroy the 
face if you look at it any more. I’m sick of it!” 

“No, you’re not,” said Inez suddenly, “you’re afraid of 
it. There!” 

As she spoke she looked up at the face again, and it seemed 
to her excited fancy that Sir Guy half smiled and applauded 
her spirit for her courage, and she further perceived that she 
had taken the right step as regarded Fernandez, for he 
shrank away for a moment and then turned his back on the 
picture. 

“There is a certain power about it, Inez,” he said. “But 
the chap’s dead and in his grave. Come, the sooner we 
arrange terms the sooner you will be let out.” 

“I want to go now. I must go. Give me that key.” 

Inez flew at her cousin in one of her ungovernable passions. 

“You must, you shall give it to me,” she said. 

He laughed, receiving her wild onslaught with a smile. 

“Put your hands behind you. You are as great a little 
vixen as ever. Now, then, no tears, no entreaties, no 
screams, no passion will affect me. Hark, there are people 
in the passage. Some one to see the room.” 

“I’ll scream now, loud enough,” said Inez. 

“You won’t,” he said, and before she could prevent him 
[225] 


A MADCAP 


he had thrust his handkerchief into her mouth and was hold- 
ing her tightly in his arms so that she could neither scream 
nor stir. A man was heard fumbling at the handle of the 
door. He said to another: 

“How is it that this door is locked?” 

The other said: 

“I don’t know. We’ll come back again. We must get 
the key from the custodian downstairs. I am sorry, ladies, 
I did not know the door was not open as usual to-day.” 

Then a voice that Inez did not recognise said : 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, we have no time now to see Sir 
Guy’s picture. We must catch the next bus back to Roslyn, 
and must start almost immediately.” 

The footsteps died away, and Inez knew that her last 
chance was over. Fernandez took the handkerchief from 
her mouth. 


CHAPTER XII 

A Night of Terror 

“Now,” said Fernandez, “I think I am having things 
my own way. This is a nice comfortable window-sill. You 
sit near me, Coz. I’ll put my arm round your waist, and 
you will be as cosy as possible. It will remind you of old 
days, won’t it. Oh, there’s no manner of use getting into 
tempers. We are not in Dominica; we are in comfortable 
old England, and up in a deserted part of an old castle. I 
doubt if anybody will want to see Sir Guy’s picture again to- 
day. We can stay just as long as we like, or as long as I 
like, so you had best make up your mind to the inevitable. 
Why, how black you look. I declare, you are a fierce girl, 
a sort of wild thing that no one ever could tame. To think 
of you having all the money, and all the power, and I living 
from hand to mouth. You haven’t got very reputable re- 
lations, Inez, for all your pride, when you remember me. 
It is your bounden duty to set me on my legs. What did 
a paltry ten pounds matter ? Why, I spent it — or lost it, 
rather, — in the course of a couple of days. Ten pounds 
won’t settle my little claim. No, nor twenty, nor thirty, 
nor a hundred, nor two or three hundred. I want to get 
an income settled on me for life, and a neat one, too. Some 
hundreds a year — that is what I want, and you can do it 
if you wish.” 

“I can’t, you know I can’t. Oh, you make me faint. I 
won’t sit with you on the window-sill. Fernandez, if I go 
on my knees, will you let me out ? Even now there is just 
time. I daren’t be discovered. I daren’t, Fernandez. 
For the sake of — your mother, who is dead, will you let 
me go ? ” 


[227] 


A MADCAP 


Poor Inez did fall on her knees. She clasped her hands. 
She looked up at the rough, wild man with all the passion 
of imploring in her eyes that she was capable of expressing. 
He turned from her roughly. 

“I won’t look at you,” he said. “You have got that 
horrid sort of power about you that w r ould move some men, 
but not me. I’m accustomed to Spanish eyes, and I know 
what they can do. I was accustomed to you, too, and your 
tantrums when you were a little kid, and I’m not going to 
be moved by you now. Upon my word, that chap there up 
on the wall — he does look like life. I’ll turn my back on 
him, and on you also. Inez, you have got to listen to my 
plan and to agree to it. Afterwards you may go home as 
fast as you like. ” 

Inez stood quite still. At that moment she was straining 
her ears to hear a sound. It came with great distinctness, 
floating in through the partly open window. It was the 
tw T o measured strokes of the half hour from the clock which 
chimed in the yard below. It chimed out a sweet air after- 
wards, brief almost as the two strokes, and then Inez sud- 
denly changed her manner. 

‘ ‘ I can listen to you , ’ ’ she said . ‘ ‘ My chance is over. Y ou 

have about done for me. I don’t care what happens after this.” 

“Why, what is the matter. You are a queer thing! 
Your tantrums are past enduring. Just because — I don’t 
know what has happened — what’s up with you? You do 
look queer!” 

“I feel queer, very queer, Fernandez,” said poor Inez, 
and as she spoke she tottered, and the next moment she 
found herself flat on the floor. She had not exactly fainted, 
but she was very weak and exhausted, and just for half an 
instant Fernandez was terrified. 

“Dear, dear! She’s such a passionate sort of creature 
she’s not able to stand anything,” he thought. 

He managed to open the window a little and to drag his 
cousin towards it. 

[228] 


A NIGHT OF TERROR 


“There now, you’ll be better,” he said. “You sit quiet 
there. My bark is worse than my bite, you know that, Inez 
— you always did know it when you were a little ’un in 
Dominica.” 

Inez closed her eyes. Nothing, indeed, seemed to matter. 
She would be found out — she would be ruined — she 
would be expelled. Philippa would not love a girl who 
drifted as she had done. In some ways she must be worse 
even than Maggie, who was only forgiven because she was 
dead. 

“ I wish I were dead, too,” thought poor Inez, and a quiver 
passed over her face. “There’s no one really kind to me, 
except Aunt Millicent, and even she could not forgive this. 
Oh, I have done wrong! I have done wrong!” 

“Courage!” said Sir Guy’s eyes at that instant. 

Inez happened to glance in their direction. She felt as 
though a strong hand were touching her. It enabled her to 
overcome her faintness. She looked up at her cousin. 

“You have done me a very great injury,” she said. “It 
has been very unkind and unnecessary. You know perfectly 
well that I am only a girl. However rich I may be when 
I am of age, I have no control over my money now. You 
know that, and yet you try to persecute me.” 

* “I don’t know what I have done in especial. I asked 
you to meet me here. You wanted to cut the whole concern, 
but I didn’t see the sense of it.” 

“I tell you you have injured me most cruelly. I was 
deceitful in order to come to you. I pretended I had a head- 
ache, and I kept away from a big picnic party, and I man- 
aged even to deceive the kind lady who stayed at home for 
my sake, and I locked my door and let her think I was 
asleep. Then I crept away, and got here, and if you had 
not been so horribly unkind, I could have caught the next 
bus to Roslyn and got home before the picnic party, and 
have reached my room before Miss Jessop missed me. 
But now it is all over, and I am disgraced.” 

[229] 


A MADCAP 


“Faugh!” said Fernandez, “a school-girl’s trouble! — a 
little bread and butter miss’s grief! You don’t suppose that 
I sympathise with you? What does it matter? I think 
you were rather plucky to pretend you had that headache. 
It was a precious clever thing to do, and I admire you for it, 
Inez. Y ou have got some of your mother’s blood in you after 
all. You are a Feranzi as much as you are a Dering, and you 
are bound to help the Feranzis whether you like it or not.” 

“But it is worse,” said Inez. “It is much worse. It 
means the loss of what I prize. I have a friend at school, 
a new friend, and I love her; and there’s the head mistress 
— I could love her too, but they don’t care for girls who 
drift, not at my school, and I am drifting — drifting!” 

“What is drifting ? I don’t understand that word in your 
horrid English.” 

“It means going down,” said Inez. “It’s the sort of 
thing you have been doing for a long time, Fernandez.” 

“Didn’t I say you were a Feranzi?” he answered, and he 
laughed. “But now, Inez, we’ll come to terms. I’m not 
going to spend the night here, for I’m hungry; but you shall, 
unless you agree to my plan.” 

“Spend the night here?” said Inez, opening her dark 
eyes wide. 

“Yes, and why not ? I’ll lock you in. No one will come 
near this place until the morning, and you may shout then 
as much as you like, you will have had your punishment, 
and I’ll be away. If you don’t agree to what I want you 
shall be locked in, so now you can choose.” 

“What do you want me to do?” said Inez. 

“I want you to come out of this, and to take my hand, and 
go straight to your school, and walk up the avenue still hold- 
ing my hand, and when you get there ask if your mistress 
has returned, and when she returns ask to see her, and take 
me in to see her. Then I will tell her my story. I will put 
the right complexion on it, and when I have finished, you 
are to say : 


[230] 


A NIGHT OF TERROR 


“‘He is my cousin, my dear mother’s nephew, and I love 
him very, very much. I want him to be helped. I want 
something to be done to give him work and employment, 
and I want my aunt to be written to about him. I love him 
very much, and I hope for his sake something will be done.’ 

“That is what you have got to say, Inez. You have got 
to take my part through thick and thin. And if you see any 
of the girls you are to tell them that you have a cousin, a very 
poor fellow, very deserving, who is in low water, but that 
you mean to help him. You will be a heroine, little Coz, if 
you do that, and there’s nothing I won’t do for you. And 
you are on no account to let out that I took the ring, or the 
other trinkets. You are to keep all that dark, as dark as 
ever you can. You are just to say that I am your dear 
cousin, that you met me when you were out, and that it is 
the one object of your life to help me. Why, Inez, you 
have got such power in you, such a wonderful expression in 
your eyes, and you can do just anything you want to do. 
That is, if you please.” 

While Fernandez was speaking he gave Inez many shifty, 
ugly glances. As for her, she was scarcely listening. His pro- 
posal was impracticable in every way. It would be better 
to spend the night alone in this dismal room than to yield to 
him. She would refuse. 

He stopped and looked at her. 

“Well,” he said, “well, it is quite reasonable. We can 
start at once. We may as well drive back to Briar Hall, — 
you shall pay, — and if the family haven’t returned, you can 
order a good appetising meal for me. Of course you are 
allowed to do that at a school like yours. I have it all 
planned — you are to take my part, to say that you are heart 
and soul with me, and I am to get what I want. Afterwards 
we can manage that aunt of yours. Why, Inez, I mean to 
live at Dering Towers. It’s the right place for me. Why 
shouldn’t I live in the same house with my own first cousin? 
I could be quite useful and handy to you. We might turn 

[231] 


A MADCAP 

out those stupid Derings, for it’s a Feranzi you are, when 
all is said and done.” 

Still Inez did not speak. She was crouching up in a cor- 
ner on the window-sill; sometimes she looked out on the 
evening scene and sometimes her gaze wandered into the 
room. It had been quite sunshiny in this room when she 
had come in, but the sun had gone farther towards the west 
now, and the room was in shadow. Fernandez stood facing 
her. He looked very eager, there were lines almost of suf- 
fering on his cheeks, and his black eyes were slightly sunken. 
It was with a queer sort of western pathos that he held out 
his hands to his cousin. 

“You will help a poor chap who is down on his luck, 
won’t you, Inez, won’t you?” 

“I can’t, Fernandez. I can’t do what you ask. I am 
very sorry I kept this a secret at all. I am being punished 
now. I can’t do what you ask.” 

“Then I vow you shall spend the night here. ” 

“I don’t care. If you lock me in you must.” 

“You won’t fancy it, for they say the place is haunted.” 

Inez shivered. 

“By that dreadful Sir Guy, too.” 

“Oh,” said Inez, “I don’t mind him.” 

She looked up at the picture. 

“Wait till it is black dark, and you are all alone, cold and 
shivering and wretched.” 

“I can’t do what you want, Fernandez.” 

“Then I’d best be going, but you don’t suppose that I’m 
conquered — not for a minute. I’ll lock you in here and go 
away. They’re sure to come in the morning, and they’ll 
break the door open. They won’t find me, though, for I’ll 
hide for a bit, and then come back to worry, and worry, and 
worry you! You’ll never get rid of me, never while I live, 
so you may as well make the best of me. It’s safer for you 
to be my friend than my enemy. You know that, don’t 
you, Inez?” 


t 2 3 2 ] 


A NIGHT OF TERROR 


Inez said nothing. 

“ Why don’t you speak ? How sulky you look.” 

“I want you to go, please.” 

“And you don’t mind being left here all alone?” 

“I’d rather be alone than with you.” 

“You have a good deal of courage, I must say. Aren’t 
you pretty hungry ? You look hungry. ” 

“Please go. Oh, Fernandez, if you’d only be kind and 
let me out. Let me go and think what is best to be done. 
See, I did bring you something.” 

Inez thrust her hand into her pocket and took out the 
couple of trinkets. 

“Those?” said Fernandez, his eyes sparkling, for he 
knew well that they were valuable. “And you think this 
miserly gift sufficient to give to your cousin ? ” 

“If you don’t want them I’ll — ” 

Fernandez made a snatch and put the two rings that Inez 
had brought with her into his pocket. 

“I’d best be off. You are an unkind girl; you’ll repent 
at leisure, that you will. You’ll have plenty of time for re- 
flection. Come,” he added, as he turned the key in the 
lock — “none of that, you don’t get out, so don’t you try!” 

In an instant he had moved the key and put it on the out- 
side of the lock, and in another moment the door itself was 
shut and locked. Inez uttered a cry, a bitter cry, as she 
heard his footsteps receding in the distance and then dying 
away. 

The clock in the court yard struck four. The room seemed 
to get a tiny bit more in shadow, but still it was full of light, 
and Sir Guy’s portrait, with Sir Guy’s face shining out of 
the midst, seemed quite encouraging and helpful and sus- 
taining for a time. For an hour, or perhaps for two hours, 
Inez had quite a warm glow round her heart. However 
wrong she had been in the past, however deceitful, she had 
done right now in not yielding to Fernandez Feranzi’s de- 
mands. She had shown courage, real courage, in preferring 

[233 ] 


A MADCAP 


to remain alone in that haunted room of the old tower, than 
to going with him to visit her mistress. She comforted her- 
self with this thought, and just for a time scarcely felt her 
loneliness. But when four o'clock was followed by five, and 
then by six, and the light was no longer anything like so 
bright as it had been, and a great silence began to brood 
over the place, she began to feel a queer, unaccountable 
sense of what she knew would be abject terror and misery by 
and by. She had scarcely yet examined the small room 
where she was confined, but now she walked round and 
round it. It was in reality little better than a cell, and had 
doubtless been used by Sir Guy as a place of prayer in the 
days of the past. The room had a wooden floor, the old 
boards being much burrowed and eaten away by mice and 
rats. The walls had never seen a coat of paint or paper; 
the door, with its heavy bolt, was made of solid iron. There 
•were two windows to the little room, and both of these were 
set in strong oriel frames of stone. Fernandez had opened 
one, and Inez now tried to open it farther, in order that she 
might put out her head, and see what her surroundings were 
like below. The frame, however, was too heavy for her to 
accomplish this, and she could only press her face to the 
pane. She perceived from that, that she was up in the old 
tower, and a good way up, quite seventy or eighty feet from 
the ground. Any escape from the window was not to be 
thought of for a moment, indeed, she could not have' got 
out, even if she tried, for the mullioned traceries w r ere very 
numerous, and the panes of glass were small and barred 
with lead. 

As she watched, she saw the man whom she had passed 
that day when she ran up to Sir Guy’s room, leaving the 
place, carrying a great bunch of keys on his arm. He was 
followed by a woman. They stood almost under Inez’s 
window, and straining her ears she could hear their words. 
The man said: 

“Is Harry coming back yet?” 

[ 2 34 ] 


A NIGHT OF TERROR 


“No,” the woman answered, “and not likely to. He has 
sprained his ankle very bad, and he’s in a good bit of pain. 
I suppose you’ll stay in the castle to-night, Jack.” 

The man shook his head, and Inez, again straining her 
ears, heard the words: 

“Promised to go to the sign of the Bee this evening, and 
don’t mean to give up my bit of a treat. There’s nought’ull 
happen if the castle is left to itself for this one night.” 

Poor Inez from above gave a frantic cry of terror. 

“Help! Help! Help!” she screamed. 

“What’s that calling? ” said the woman. 

Inez uttered her cries again. The man and woman looked 
to right and left, but never in her direction. 

“It’s a rook, maybe, in the tree,” said the man. 

The woman lowered her voice. 

“The place is haunted sure enough,” she said. “It’s a 
shriek from Sir Guy’s tower,” and then they hurried off as 
fast as they could, paying no attention to poor Inez, who had 
screamed in vain for deliverance. 

The poor girl now knew that she had to contemplate a soli- 
tary night, suffering from intense hunger and also a sense 
of cold, for the night air, coming in through the open win- 
dow, was the reverse of warm. 

“Oh, I must keep up my courage! I am not going to be 
afraid of Sir Guy,” she thought, and then she looked again 
at the picture, and the kind eyes smiled at her as they always 
did, and seemed to assure her of protection. 

- This was all very well as long as she could see the eyes, but 
by and by it became so dark that she could not discern the 
picture any longer, and could only see the panes of glass 
because they were between her and the evening sky. She 
reflected with an added sense of discomfiture that the night 
was going to be a dark one, for there was no moon in the 
sky just then. 

“What am I to do?” thought the girl. “Oh, I won’t 
let myself be frightened — no, I won’t! Sir Guy, I am sure 

[235] 


A MADCAP 


you are not far off, and you’ll help me and give me courage. 
I am a very wicked girl, but you won’t utterly forsake me, 
just because I have drifted. I will think about Aunt Milli- 
cent, and about Dering Towers, and about the children, and 
I will try to forget that terrible Fernandez, and the other 
terrible, awful thing.” 

She remembered that the very room of the tower in which 
she was, was supposed to be haunted. She must turn her 
thoughts from that terror at least. 

Presently she sat down on the floor, and wondered if 
sleep would visit her. But you can seldom sleep when you 
are both hungry and cold, and Inez found herself strangely 
wakeful. She tried with considerable resolution to keep 
her thoughts in what she considered healthy channels. She 
tried to think about what was going on at the school. 
Would they really be frightened about her? Would they 
start to look for her? Would they wonder what was hap- 
pening to her all this time ? Miss Jessop must have had her 
room broken into by now. Her absence had been dis- 
covered, Miss Ferrier knew the worst — her pupil was not a 
good girl, she had done one of those impossible things, one 
of those unforgiveable things, that poor Maggie had done. 

“Oh, I wonder which I dread most,” thought poor Inez, 
“the horror of this awful night, the cold and the hunger, or 
the thought of what is before me to-morrow. If only 
Philippa were here. If Philippa were a really great and 
true friend, she’d forgive me even if I am naughty. I sup- 
pose I am very naughty. I wish I knew how to do right. 
It’s horrid doing wrong, you are always punished in the long 
run. I wish I were good, and yet I never did like good girls, 
they seem to be so tame, they haven’t any spirit. But I sup- 
pose it’s the best to be good. Philippa now, looks to have 
plenty of spirit. I saw her eyes flash once when some one 
said something rather rude to her, and she does speak up 
when she likes. She’s awfully civil to the teachers, but she 
doesn’t allow the girls to get the better of her. No, indeed, 
[236] 


A NIGHT OF TERROR 


she doesn’t. Philippa is splendid, they all respect her. I 
wonder what she finds to like in me. Or, I mean I wonder 
what she did find. She won’t find anything more to like in 
me, ever, ever, ever! Oh, dear! I wish I’d never come to 
this school. I wish Fernandez had never come back from 
Dominica. What a terribly wicked man he is. How cruel! 
I don’t believe an Englishman would lock a girl up in a 
haunted tower and leave her for a whole night. I don’t be- 
lieve it, not for a moment. Oh, I wish I could sleep! and I 
wish I wasn’t so cold. I wish I could see Sir Guy’s eyes. 
Sir Guy, darling Sir Guy ! Oh, there, he won’t answer. It’s 
so terribly cold up here, and I’m all alone. I’m just what 
that woman said, a poor orphan, with no father and mother. 
Oh, yes, I’m rich, but what do riches matter ? I’ve got a big 
place, but I’d rather have a kiss from Aunt Millicent, or a 
smile from Philippa, or — I wonder if Miss Ferrier will sing 
to-night. On Sunday she sings hymns. Most nights she 
sings beautiful songs. I don’t like Miss Ferrier, but I do 
like her singing. It makes me feel — oh ! I shiver all up my 
spine, and I get a delicious sort of sensation. Now it’s 
worth something to be able to sing like that. But money — 
money is worth nothing.” 

It was quite dark now. Inez had raised the skirt of her 
dress and had folded it round her shoulders. This action 
made her legs extra cold, but still, the feeling that she had 
something to hug round her, gave her a momentary sense 
of comfort. 

“I know I am very bad — I wish God would make me 
good,” she said to herself; and then she made an effort to 
pray, but it seemed to her that the prayer would not rise 
above the stone walls of her prison, and it seemed that Sir 
Guy, himself, who had been so strong and protecting all the 
earlier part of the time, had also disappeared. 

The clock in the courtyard struck nine. Had she really 
spent all this time in this dreadful, dismal place? For Fer- 
nandez had gone away before four o’clock. She was here 

[237] 


A MADCAP 


five hours and she had not slept a bit and she was icy cold, 
and there must be another five, nay, six, or seven, or even 
eight hours before she could see daylight. Oh, how was 
she to live through it ? She did not think she could. 

It was just at that moment that the sensitive ears of the 
girl heard a sound which at first gave her a sense of being 
almost paralysed. It was the scraping sound of teeth, 
vigorous, close at hand. She started up, w r hile the terrible 
word formed itself on her lips. 

“Rats! I shall die if rats come in,” she thought. 

She sat perfectly motionless while the queer scraping 
noise resumed itself quite close to her. 

“It’s rats, or the place is haunted!” she thought. But 
then she remembered that this sound was unmistakably the 
noise made by rats, and she also remembered what her 
mother had told her her old nurse had done on a similar 
occasion in Dominica. It had happened when the late 
Mrs. Dering was a tiny child. She had been left in the 
house with her black nurse for a night, and this house was 
infested by very fierce rats. The woman and the child could 
no nothing to stop them for some time, until at last the 
black woman began to pace up and down the room with 
heavy steps, sometimes shouting to keep her enemies at bay. 
She kept moving all night, and as long as she moved, the 
rats stayed in their holes, peeping out with their wicked 
eyes, but not daring to enter the room. 

If poor old Nurse Jessica could do that in far-away 
Dominica, in a huge room at least tw r enty times the size of 
the one Inez was confined in, surely she could do likewise in 
her present prison. Consequently she started to her feet 
and began to pace up and down. Up and down, up and 
down she walked, occasionally stamping her foot, occasion- 
ally uttering an angry shout. She soon found to her relief 
that as long as she kept moving the rats kept at bay, and the 
exercise did her good, and to a certain extent saved her from 
the worst consequences of her cruel imprisonment. But 

[238] 


A NIGHT OF TERROR 


the length of that night, and the terrors that surrounded it, 
could never be forgotten. 

Towards morning Inez fell on the floor to indulge in a few 
minutes of unconsciousness. She awoke, however, to see 
two rats a few feet away from her, both watching her with 
very bright eyes. She gave a scream and they vanished, 
and at the same instant, as she started to her feet, she was 
relieved to perceive that the face of Sir Guy was once again 
visible. Kind, strong, strange and powerful, were the eyes 
that looked at the girl, and the girl looked full up at them. 

“Oh, Sir Guy! Sir Guy! Do you think God will for- 
give me?” pleaded Inez, and Sir Guy seemed to say in that 
indescribable way he had: 

“God forgives all sins when the sinner repents.” 


[239] 


CHAPTER XIII 

The Empty Room 

Miss Jessop spent quite a peaceful day. She was very 
much occupied as a rule, and the rest and quiet of the com- 
paratively empty house appealed to her in a most satis- 
factory manner. The day pupils always left before early 
dinner, and as they prepared their lessons at home they 
did not come back. From one o’clock out, therefore, Miss 
Jessop had the large mansion practically to herself. She 
liked Inez on the whole, although she had certainly failed to 
understand her. She was sorry the child had a headache, 
but regarded it as an everyday occurrence. 

Having eaten her dinner, she sat for a good hour enjoy- 
ing the delights of a new novel. She then went out into 
the grounds, remarked what a lovely day it was, and sud- 
denly remembered Inez. 

“I might take her up a cup of coffee,” she said to her- 
self. “If she is asleep, she has begged of me not to waken 
her; but she may not be asleep, and a cup of coffee would 
do her good.” 

Accordingly she went upstairs with the coffee, which she 
had prepared herself, and tapped at Inez’s door. There 
was no answer. She turned the handle and found that the 
door was locked. 

“Provoking ! ” she said, with a sigh of annoyance. “ Silly 
girl! Not at all good of her to lock her door. She knows, 
or she ought to know, that it is strictly against the rules. 
Shall I call aloud and waken her, or allow her to have her 
sleep out?” 

Miss Jessop considered for a time, but she was naturally 
a very easy-going woman, and Inez had particularly stipu- 
[240] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 


lated that she should not be wakened. She therefore de- 
cided to pass over the enormity of the locked door for the 
present, and to go back to her occupations. 

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Miss Jessop 
for the first hour was occupied with household matters; 
then a visitor, a special friend of her own, happened to call, 
and the two ladies went out into the grounds, where they 
walked up and down and talked for some time. Miss 
Jessop ’s friend was a Miss Berringer, who happened to be 
living close to the village of Roslyn. 

“What sort of pupils have you this term?” she began. 
“Anybody fresh? Anything interesting going on?” 

“Nothing very special,” said Miss Jessop. “I think the 
girls are quite good. There is a young Spanish girl, she’s 
a little more difficult than the others, but there’s nothing 
peculiar about her, and Miss Ferrier — you know what a 
clever woman she is — will bring her to her own way of 
thinking.” 

“A Spanish girl! Really!” replied Miss Berringer, “I 
thought Miss Ferrier was so particular to have only Eng- 
lish girls at her school.” 

“This girl is half Spanish, half English. She is here 
with her cousins, two charming girls of the name of Dering. 
She happens to inherit the place that the Derings used to 
live in. She will be very rich in the future, while the Derings 
will be quite poor. But they are such delightful girls that 
no one cares whether they are rich or poor. Their cousin 
is really not a patch on them.” 

“You interest me very much,” said Miss Berringer. “And 
by the way, talking of Spaniards, there’s a most extraordi- 
nary man lodging in the village, I have seen him two or 
three times lately. He’s lodging over the smith’s shop. 
He loafs about a good deal, and they say he’s quite a 
foreigner, and I should say, by his sombre black eyes, that 
he must be a Spaniard.” 

“I know nothing about him.” 

[241] 


A MADCAP 


“Well, he is here, I assure you, and what is more, a young 
girl, who I should say was his sister or daughter, is here 
also, a queer-looking girl, very, with handsome black 
eyes. As I was coming up to see you I saw her strolling 
along the village. She got into the omnibus which runs 
between the Sign of the White Swan and the Sign of the 
Bee at Guy’s Tower. It’s odd that Spanish people should 
settle here in an out-of-the-way place like this.” 

“Well,” said Miss Jessop, “I’m sure I can’t tell you any- 
thing at all about them. Will you sit down under this tree 
for a minute or two, Honora, while I go up again and find 
out if Inez is awake.” 

“Inez. Who is Inez?” 

“The little half-Spanish girl I was just telling you about. 
She didn’t go with the others to-day, because she was suf- 
fering with a headache. I gave her some bromide to soothe 
her, and she must have been asleep now for some hours. 
I must look after her. It must be getting on for four 
o’clock. When I come down you and I will have tea to- 
gether in my sanctum.” 

“Thank you very much, Anne,” said Miss Berringer, 
and Miss Jessop ran into the house. 

Again she knocked at Inez’s door, but there was no re- 
sponse. Again she felt the handle of the locked door, but 
the locked door would certainly not yield. She was suffi- 
ciently annoyed now to shake it a little and even to call in a 
low tone: 

“Inez! Inez! Are you awake? Inez, dear Inez!” 

But there was no answer from within, and Miss Jessop 
reflected that her friend would be wanting her tea, and that 
if Inez did not wake within the next hour she would cer- 
tainly shout to her and get her to unlock the door before 
Miss Ferrier came back. 

“You look quite excited,” said Miss Berringer when her 
friend returned. 

“Well, I am just a little bit annoyed. There are some 
[242] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 


girls, my dear Honora, to whom you cannot teach the usual 
laws of rectitude and honour. Now there’s that Spanish 
girl — she knows perfectly well that she isn’t allowed to 
lock her door, and she has been asleep inside that room 
since one o’clock. I promised her I wouldn’t w r ake her 
till five, so I’ll keep my share of the bargain, but if she 
doesn’t rouse herself then, the door shall be forced. It’s 
really too annoying.” 

Miss Berringer was scarcely interested. 

“What delicious cakes you have here,” she said, “and 
I wonder where you get your tea. On the whole you have 
a very cosy nook in this house, have you not, Anne ? ” 

“So, so,” said Miss Jessop, “there are always drawbacks. 
But the girls are nice, and I adore Miss Ferrier. There’s 
a great deal of confinement, however, and I often long for 
your liberty.” 

“Oh, my dear, don’t — don’t. My fife is so tame. I 
perfectly long to be of use to any one human creature, but 
there’s not a soul in the wide world who wants me. But 
there, now, I must be going. I have enjoyed my chat with 
you, and my delicious tea. Come and see me on Sunday, 
won’t you, and have tea with me. I should so like it. Do 
come.” 

“Thank you very much, Honora, but I can’t promise. 
You know my time is not my own. But if I can get 
an hour off and can find my way to Roslyn, I’ll look 
you up.” 

“Do, dear, do.” 

“And if you see that Spaniard and his sister or whatever 
the young relative is, you might point them out to me.” 

Miss Berringer went on her way, and as she went, she 
thought again of her interview with Miss Jessop. She was 
walking down, the little High Street, when she came face 
to face with Fernandez. He had got back from Guy’s 
Tower and was hurrying home, meaning to pack his small 
belongings and to decamp that very evening. His face was 

[243] 


A MADCAP 


slightly flushed, his eyes had a very disagreeable expression. 
They almost squinted as he glanced at Miss Berringer. 

“I have a kind of intuition that that woman comes from 
Briar Hall,” he thought to himself. “Well, I’ve paid Inez, 
out for once. She’ll have a night of it!” 

Miss Berringer heard him chuckling as he went quickly 
past her. 

“What a dreadful, dreadful man!” she thought to her- 
self. “After all, I don’t think I like Spaniards. I hope 
dear Anne won’t have trouble with that Spanish child. It 
was queer of her to lock her door.” 

And now at Briar Hall the moment had come when 
Miss Jessop felt that Inez must be allowed to sleep no 
longer. She accordingly went upstairs, knocked at the 
door, turned the handle, pushed it, shook it, and finally be- 
gan to shout : 

“Inez, you must wake! Come at once and unlock the 
door. Miss Ferrier will be here in a few moments, and she 
will be exceedingly angry. Unlock the door immediately, 
my dear.” 

But there was no sound of any sort within. On the con- 
trary there was such a complete absence of sound that Miss 
Jessop, in spite of herself, began to feel a queer sensation of 
alarm. Her heart beat faster than its wont. She was a 
very quiet, unemotional woman, but the fact that a pupil, 
and one of the most important girls in the school, should 
have slept for so many hours after an opiate, without mak- 
ing any movement of any sort, was enough to terrify her. 

“I wonder if I did wrong to give her bromide,” she said 
to herself. “I wonder if I gave her too much. I wonder 
if it was bromide at all!” 

A horrible thought shook the poor governess to her 
depths. She rushed to her room to examine the bottle from 
which she had taken the powder. Oh, yes, that was right 
enough. The name was printed on it. 

“I declare I got a turn for a minute,” she said to herself. 

[ 244] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 

“Well, I must get one of the men up; the door must be 
forced.” 

As Miss Jessop was about to proceed to this extremity, 
young voices were heard downstairs, and the next minute 
Miss Ferrier was seen walking down the corridor. Miss 
Jessop immediately made up her mind. 

“Iam glad you have come,” she said, turning to the head 
mistress. “I am anxious about Inez.” 

“About Inez Dering 1 ” cried Miss Ferrier. “Is she worse ? ” 

“I don’t know whether she is worse or better. At one 
o’clock her head was so bad that I gave her a dose of bro- 
mide. She took it, and begged not to be disturbed. Con- 
trary to the rules she has locked her door. I have gone to 
her from time to time, but cannot make her hear. I was 
not seriously alarmed until half an hour ago, but since then 
I have been shouting to her, and shaking the door, and she 
won’t answer.” 

“You should have insisted at once on her replying,” said 
Miss Ferrier. “But never mind, you are not really to 
blame. I will have the door burst open.” 

One of the men was sent for, for the purpose, and a few 
minutes later Miss Ferrier, Miss Jessop, Philippa Stewart, 
Dorothy, and Suzette, all entered Inez’s room. Of course 
there was no Inez within. The bed showed traces of hav- 
ing been lain on. The room was in slight disorder, but 
there was no sign whatever of the girl herself. 

“Where in the world can she be?” was the exclamation 
of one and all. 

As to Dorothy, she glanced at Philippa and her face 
turned very white. Miss Ferrier turned to the three girls. 

“Dorothy,” she said, “you know your cousin. Philippa, 
you know your friend. Have you anything, anything at all 
to say with regard to this matter?” 

Both the girls shook their heads. 

“We know nothing,” they exclaimed. “Oh, what is 
wrong ? ” 


[*45] 


A MADCAP 


“Well, just go away at once and take off your things, and 
behave as though nothing had happened. Of course I shall 
have an instant search made for this poor child. But don’t 
be alarmed, it is only a naughty escapade; we shall soon 
find her.” 

“Oh, do let me help. May I not help?” said Philippa* 

“No, Philippa, you had best not. At least not at present. 
I will tell you when I have taken the usual steps. Of 
course the first thing is to institute a considerably large 
search party to go in different directions to find the miss- 
ing girl.” 

Miss Jessop found herself dissolved in tears; she went 
downstairs presently to one of the school rooms, where all 
the boarders were assembled. The main thought in every 
heart, the one sentence on every lip was — “Where is Inez 
Dering?” Philippa stood a little apart from the others. 
While they were puzzled and distressed, she was trying to 
collect her thoughts. What was the matter? What had 
really happened? How sad Inez had looked at times, and 
she certainly did seem to be burdened with a peculiar secret. 
But still Philippa could not get the slightest clue. 

It was just then that a message came to her to go to the 
head mistress. Miss Ferrier was in her own room. 

“Shut the door, Philippa,” she said, “and sit down. 
Now, my dear, I am sending people in all directions, and I 
trust your friend Inez will soon be found. I want you frankly 
to tell me what you think of her. You haven’t known her 
long, but you took to her at once.” 

“Yes,” said Philippa. “I am exceedingly attached to 
her. In fact I love her very dearly.” 

“But what sort of a girl do you think she is ? Remember, 
it is your duty, at the present moment, both for her sake, 
and the sake of the school, that you should speak out.” 

“I think she is a very strange girl, in many ways, Miss 
Ferrier, but still I love her. I think too — ” 

“Yes, dear Philippa, speak out.” 

[246] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 

u I think she is burdened by a secret. I don’t know of 
what nature.” 

Miss Ferrier nodded. 

“ Philippa,” she said, “I give you credit for great dis- 
cernment, for that certainly is the case. What really ails 
Inez has been a puzzle to me since before she came to the 
school, but that it is of a secret character, and something 
that much injures her happiness, I am perfectly persuaded, 
and now, in order to help you, Philippa, to give me a right 
estimate of her character, and any clue that is possible with 
regard to her present whereabouts, I will tell you some- 
thing.” 

Miss Ferrier then told Philippa what she knew with re- 
gard to Inez Dering before she arrived at the school. 

“I hope this will not turn you from your friend,” she said 
in conclusion. “The girl has not been brought up like 
an English girl. I very much fear that she is in the power 
of some one, but who that person is, I have not the slightest 
idea. That is where I want you to help me.” 

Miss Ferrier had not only told Philippa, but she had 
shown her the trinkets which Inez had sold at St. Pierre. 

“She knows that I have them, but she will not enlighten 
me in any way,” said the head mistress. “I would not 
have received her at the school but for her aunt’s sake, and 
yet, Philippa, I am quite sure that she is a girl who can be 
brought to goodness and rectitude and the ways of honour. 
She will be very rich by and by, and everything will depend 
on how she exercises the great talent confided to her. It 
would be wrong to give her up.” 

“I remember one thing,” said Philippa very slowly. “I 
told her about Maggie. I didn’t tell her why Maggie left, 
for you know we decided that the secret was to be buried 
in her grave, but I told her that she had drifted, and drifted. 
And I remember saying — ” 

“Yes, dear. Goon.” 

“That I would always love a person who struggled, but I 

[ 2 47 ] 


A MADCAP 


would not make a friend of anyone who drifted. She 
looked very sadly at me. Don’t you remember the curious 
expression she can get in her eyes when she likes ? ” 

“Yes, beautiful, wonderful — I have never seen eyes like 
hers.” 

“Well, she did look at me so sadly then. Oh, Miss 
Ferrier — one thing seems to recall another. There was 
that day a week ago, you remember, when we w r ent to Guy’s 
Tower.” 

“I certainly remember, dear.” 

“Well, you know she lost her necklace.” 

“Ido.” 

“She wouldn’t go the right way up to the castle. She 
was so queer, so strange. She saw a man, a horrid, foreign- 
looking man, standing on the path. He looked like a Span- 
iard, and she said — T hate him, and I won’t go by him.’ 
She had seen him once or twice before. She turned away 
and seemed quite distressed and annoyed, and then she took 
a short cut across the meadow, and I think she got her feet 
wet, and she lost her necklace. I don’t know if there is 
anything in that, but she certainly did seem strangely 
excited.” 

“I don’t know that there’s anything in it,” said Miss 
Ferrier. “But it is very puzzling. How could that man 
have her in his power? Why, she has always been taken 
care of and looked after by her friends. She could not be 
afraid of him.” 

“Well, certainly,” said Philippa, “she looked afraid, and 
she ran away very quickly.” 

“And did you follow her?” 

“ No, I walked round by the path, and I saw the man. He 
was very disagreeable-looking, and he was watching her, 
but he said nothing to me, and he walked quickly away in 
another direction.” 

“Well,” said Miss Ferrier, “I can’t see that this gives any 
clue. I wish I could. But I will make enquiries if there is. 
[248] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 


such a man in the village, and if there is, I think he ought 
to be questioned. You say that whenever the child met 
him she seemed distressed.” 

“Very much so; very much so indeed.” 

“Well I will go down to the village myself. Go back to 
the girls, Philippa. Say nothing to them of what we were 
talking. I had to give you my confidence, my dear girl, 
but I trust that it will make no difference in your affection 
for Inez.” 

“Indeed, no, I am more interested in her than ever.” 

Miss Ferrier did go down to the village to make enquiries, 
and was presently informed that the foreigner, who had 
given no name whatever, had been lodging over the smith’s 
shop for some little time, but that he had left that very after- 
noon. 

“He came in, in a hurry,” said the smith’s wife, when 
she was questioned, “and he said to me — ‘The week’s up, 
and I paid in advance. I don’t want anything more from 
you,’ and he put his few things into his bag and went away. 
He said he was going towards Exeter, but he went in the 
opposite direction.” 

“How long is it since he went?” said Miss Ferrier. 

“Not more than an hour or two.” 

“Had he anyone with him?” 

“No.” 

“Did anyone ever come to see him?” 

“Nobody. He was quite lonely, and didn’t seem to 
know a soul in the place.” 

“He never spoke of any of the young ladies at my school ? ” 

“He didn’t speak half a dozen words to anyone, and he 
certainly didn’t say their names. I’m glad he’s gone. He 
was a tiresome, grumpy sort of body, pleased with nothing. 
I’m well quit of him.” 

Miss Ferrier then went to the police station, and asked 
one of the policemen to try to follow up Fernandez, and 
endeavour if possible to get some clue from him with regard 

[249] 


A MADCAP 


to the missing girl. But although the police did their best, 
and everybody was agog and restless and anxious, there 
was no news of Inez. 

This was a sorrowful night at Briar Hall. As to Dorothy 
she had wept so long that her eyes were quite sunken in her 
head, and as to Suzette, she could do nothing but fling her 
arms round her sister’s neck and cry out about Inez, her 
beloved Inez. 

Miss Ferrier, however, determined not to send any tele- 
gram to Mrs. Dering until the first thing on the following 
morning. 

“We may find her soon,” she said, “ and there is no use 
in terrifying Mrs. Dering unnecessarily.” 

It was late when the girls went to bed. Many of them 
pleaded to sit up, but that Miss Ferrier would not allow. 
The usual exercises and discipline of the school had been 
relaxed, for it was impossible to think of doing the custom- 
ary work while every head and every heart was so intensely 
anxious with regard to Inez. But at last the bed hour came, 
and the tired girls went to their rooms and, worn out with 
anxiety, soon dropped asleep. 

It was Philippa who woke first. She woke early in the 
morning, just before the dawn. Her room was quite dark, 
but she had a kind of impression that there was some one 
in it. She started up and called aloud: 

“Are you there, Inez?” 

There was no response of any kind, and Philippa lay 
down again with her heart beating loudly, and then it seemed 
to her that she had a dream, and in that dream she heard 
Maggie’s sweet, high-bred voice saying with such passion 
and longing: 

“Even if I have drifted don’t give me up — don’t give 
me up. It is so steep going down the hill. Hold out your 
hand, or I shall reach the bottom before you can save me, 
and at the bottom there are the breakers and the angry sea 
and — and death!” 


. [ 250 ] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 


“No, I won’t give you up,” said Philippa, speaking aloud, 
as though there were a real person talking to her, and then 
she knew that she had dreamt it. But now she was wide 
awake, too wide awake to sleep any more. 

It came over her as she lay thinking, her heart aching for 
Inez, that perhaps she had been cruel to her friend. 

“For who am I,” thought Philippa, “that I should say 
to her, ‘I could love anybody who struggled, but I could 
not love one who drifted’? Why did I say that?” 

She thought of Maggie, and her old love for Maggie, 
and then she thought again of Inez, and wonder and fear 
took possession of her. But all of a sudden, as the day 
grew brighter, Philippa was impressed over again by the 
look on Inez’s face the day they had gone to Guy’s Tower; 
her distress when the necklace was lost; her queer deter- 
mination that there should be no reward offered for it; her 
shrinking and terror of the Spaniard, and her resolve at 
any risk not to cross his path. 

“That Spaniard must have something to do with it. 
Who can he be? Why should a Spaniard come to our 
little village, and why should Inez, of all people, be afraid of 
him? She has such courage,” thought Philippa. “She 
doesn’t look as though she had any fear in her, that is, 
as a rule, but when she saw the Spaniard she was frightened. 
Oh, I cannot stand it any longer. I’ll go to Miss Jessop.” 

So Philippa rose, dressed quickly, and ran down the 
silent corridor to the wing where the teachers slept. Miss 
Jessop had a small room to herself, and Philippa opened 
the door as softly as possible, afraid of waking some one 
else. She need not, however, have been afraid of waking 
Miss Jessop, who was sitting up in bed, with her face quite 
haggard with anxiety. 

“ What is it, Philippa ? ” she said. “Are you ill, my dear ? ” 

“No, not ill, Miss Jessop, but I do want to talk to you. 
You know how I love Inez Dering?” 

“Yes, dear, I’m sure you do. We are all interested in 

t 2 5 1 ] 


A MADCAP 

her, but at the same time she is an exceedingly naughty 
girl.” 

“Oh, please don’t scold her, we none of us know what 
has happened. I do feel so awful. I am so anxious to get 
some clue. I have a sort of idea that she can’t be far away. 
But I don’t know what to do. You remember Maggie? 
I thought that Maggie came to my room just now, and 
spoke to me just as she might have spoken. Oh, I am so 
unhappy. Miss Jessop, I am going to tell you what I told 
Miss Ferrier last night.” 

Then Philippa told Miss Jessop the story of the Spaniard, 
and Inez’s desire to get away from him, and her unwilling- 
ness to have any reward offered for the missing necklace. 

While she was speaking Miss Jessop sat more upright 
than ever in bed. 

“How stupid of me not to think of it before. Why, 
Honora Berringer gave me an undoubted clue yesterday 
afternoon.” 

“What do you mean, Miss Jessop?” 

“My friend, Honora Berringer, was here to tea, and she 
spoke about that Spaniard, and said that a young girl — 
she was certain she was a relative of his from the likeness — 
was seen walking through the village, and taking her place 
in the omnibus which runs from Roslyn to Guy’s Tower. 
Do you think it is possible, Philippa, that it could have been 
Inez?” 

“Why, of course it must have been Inez,” said Philippa, 
“and she may have — ” 

A distressed look crossed her face, and just for a moment 
a proud light came into her eyes and a sort of disdain curled 
her lips. 

“Oh, I won’t think the worst of her,” she said, “until I 
know.” 

“We will follow the clue. I will tell Miss Ferrier in the 
morning.” 

“But, Miss Jessop, we ought not to delay one hour. Why 

[ 2 5 2 ] 


THE EMPTY ROOM 


shouldn’t you and I go at once to Guy’s Castle ? We could 
walk there in about an hour, and with such an object in 
view — such a possibility, can you hesitate?” 

“I will go with you with pleasure,” said Miss Jessop. 
“To tell the truth, lying here thinking nearly drives me mad. 
I will join you downstairs in a few minutes.” 


[ 2 53 ] 


CHAPTER XIV 

A Full Confession and Forgiveness 

It was a misty and disagreeable morning when Miss 
Jessop and her favourite pupil, for she loved no one in the 
school as she loved Philippa Stewart, found themselves on 
the high road which led to Guy’s Castle. Philippa had 
never walked to the renowned old ruin before, but she felt 
no sense of fatigue now, as she and her teacher stepped 
lightly over the road. The nearer they came to the ruin 
the more certain did Philippa feel that she was getting once 
again into touch with Inez. Philippa herself was a girl 
with very vivid imagination, and when, by and by, both of 
them very hot from their rapid exercise, they approached 
the precincts of the beautiful ruins, Philippa laid her hand 
on her teacher’s arm. 

“Oh, suppose she has been here all night, locked in by 
mistake! Suppose she has!” 

“After all, Philippa,” said Miss Jessop, “I feel that you 
and I are some of the mad people in regard to this search. 
Why did we leave home without consulting Miss Ferrier? 
And now that we have arrived here, what are we to do ? ” 

“We will ring the custodian’s bell,” said Philippa, 
promptly, “and get him to come with us to search the en- 
tire tower. Oh, I am certain she is here.” 

“Philippa, you are talking nonsense. You can’t know.” 

“But, Miss Jessop, you yourself spoke of a girl who had 
a likeness to that Spaniard, who had been seen getting into 
the omnibus.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Jessop, almost testily, “and you jump 
at the conclusion that it was Inez Dering. Now is it likely 

[ 2 54 ] 


A FULL CONFESSION AND FORGIVENESS 


that Inez Dering would have anything to do with a man of 
that sort ? ” 

“She was very much afraid of the stranger, who was un- 
doubtedly the same who crossed her path a week ago.” 

“Then,” said Miss Jessop, “the less reason she would 
go to him.” 

Philippa made an impatient movement. 

“Oh, come on,” she said, “we have got to follow out this 
search now. We have got to struggle with all our might 
and main to find her. There are times when instincts and 
strong feelings cannot be lightly disregarded, and I am 
quite sure that this is such an occasion. There is some- 
thing strange about Inez, and just at present she must not 
be judged by ordinary standards.” 

Miss Jessop looked doubtfully at her pupil. 

“Very well, dear,” she said, then, in a gentle tone, “I will 
be guided by you exactly. Here we are. I am tired, and 
should like to be back in time for breakfast, for when you 
and I are also missing it will greatly add to the misery of 
dear Miss Ferrier’s mind. But what are we to do now?” 

“We’ll walk straight up, open that iron gate and ring the 
custodian’s bell,” said Philippa. 

“He will be in bed and asleep.” 

“The bell is quite loud enough to waken him.” 

“Very well, as you will,” said Miss Jessop with a sigh. 
“I shall feel rather a fool,” she murmured under her breath, 
“making enquiries about a girl who cannot by any possi- 
bility be in the tower.” 

But Philippa, true to her instincts, walked boldly up the 
narrow path which led to the iron-studded door, and with 
a firm hand pulled the bell, making an immense noise and 
clatter. Inez, up in her lonely prison in the distant wing, 
heard it, and pressed her face against the glass. But she 
could see no one. A sense of relief, however, stole over her. 
There were human beings at last within measurable dis- 
tance of her. 


t 2 55 ] 


A MADCAP 


Philippa rang the bell once, twice, three times, but of 
course there was no response, for no one had slept at Guy’s 
Tower during the previous night. 

“We had best go home; we have done a silly thing,” said 
Miss Jessop. “If I could get a conveyance of any sort I 
would drive back. Poor Miss Ferrier, she will be justly 
annoyed by this!” 

“We will walk round the outside of the tower,” said 
Philippa, “and we’ll look up at all the windows.” 

Miss Jessop objected, but Philippa was firm. There 
was a wide gravel path running round the ancient keep of 
the castle, and Philippa chose to walk here, gazing up at 
each window as she did so. Several of the windows were 
in ruins, several without glass or any protection from the 
elements, but others again were whole and in a fair state 
of preservation. Amongst these guarded windows, all 
mullioned and with heavy bars without, was that one in the 
western tower where poor Inez was a prisoner, and now, as 
Philippa looked eagerly up, she saw a small white face look- 
ing as eagerly, with frightened eyes, down at her. She gave 
a sudden scream, and said in a piercing tone: 

“Inez! Inez! O, Miss Jessop, there she is. Coming, Inez! 
Coming! Wait a minute, darling, and we’ll be up with you.” 

And then Philippa absolutely pulled her companion along 
with her. 

“We must go down to the village — we must make some- 
body get her out. Oh, she does look terrified! Isn’t her 
face changed? I never saw anyone look just like that. 
Oh Inez! dear Inez!” cried Philippa. 

The two ladies, the elder and the younger, now hurried 
in great excitement to the village, which consisted of a num- 
ber of small cottages forming a tiny hamlet at the foot of 
the hill which led to Guy’s Tower. Early as it was, a few 
of the inhabitants were already astir, and a man was seen 
walking along with two pails of milk slung over his shoulders. 
Philippa immediately ran up to him. 

[= 56 ] 


A FULL CONFESSION AND FORGIVENESS 


“Can you tell me,” she said, “what is the name of the 
person who takes charge of Guy’s Tower? There is a 
prisoner in the tower; someone has been locked in all night, 
and we want to get her out.” 

“Hammond is the name of the man,” said the surprised 
milkman. “But, a prisoner in the tower! Forgive me, 
I don’t understand.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Philippa, “only are you willing 
to come and help ? This lady and I have been looking for 
one of the girls from Briar Hall, and I have just seen her 
face looking through a window, the window of the room 
where Sir Guy’s portrait is. We have rung the bell three 
or four times, but can’t get any answer.” 

“Then,” said the milkman, “it must be that Hammond 
has been sleeping at his daughter-in-law’s house. That’s 
the house, miss, just to the right, the one with the white- 
washed walls and the green door.” 

Philippa, in great excitement, almost forgot Miss Jessop, 
who followed more leisurely. In a minute’s time she was 
pounding at Hammond’s door, and the old custodian him- 
self, looking sleepy and frightened, suddenly appeared. 

“What is it?” he said. “Who’s disturbing an honest 
man from his rightful slumbers? The Tower ain’t on view 
till ten o’clock. What’s up?” 

“This is up,” said Philippa, suddenly grasping his arms. 
“There is a young lady locked in one of the rooms of the 
tower, and you have behaved disgracefully to be away all 
night. If you don’t want to lose your post you had better 
hurry now.” 

The old man was at once shocked and repentant. 

“’Ow was I to know, miss? ’Ow was I to know? My 
son sleeps there most nights, but he couldn’t come last night 
cos he’s sprained ’is leg. Nobody ’ud do us an ill turn cos 
of an accident. I’ll ’urry now, miss. ’Ow was I to know 
that someone was locked in ? You say locked in the tower ? 
And it’s haunted and full o’ rats!” 

[ 2 57 ] 


A MADCAP 


“Oh, dear Inez!” cried Philippa. 

She hurried the old custodian as much as she possibly 
could, and certainly in less than a quarter of an hour she and 
he and Miss Jessop were standing outside the locked door 
of the room where Sir Guy’s portrait hung. It was Philippa 
who first entered when the heavy lock was drawn back. 
She saw a girl standing bolt upright against the wall. The 
girl’s hands were tightly clasped together, and her eyes 
were fixed on the portrait of Sir Guy. When Philippa 
came in she was saying in a low tone: 

“Do you mean that every sort of sin is forgiven, if only 
you repent ? ” 

And then she started, for a pair of warm and strong arms 
were flung round her neck, and a girl, the girl whom she 
in reality loved best, was clasping her in her arms, and 
Philippa’s tears felt warm against her cold cheeks. 

“Oh, Inez! Inez! No, you mustn’t talk now, you poor 
dear! You must come home to be petted and loved. Inez! 
Dear Inez ! ” 

“ But what does this mean ? ” said Inez. “ Who are you ? 
Are you Maggie?” 

“No, I am Philippa, Philippa Stewart, and you and I 
have sworn to be great friends always. Here am I, your 
friend, come for you. Oh, Miss Jessop, do speak to her.” 

“Of course we are delighted to find you, Inez,” said Miss 
Jessop. 

“Oh, I know,” said Inez, suddenly wrenching herself 
away from Philippa, “I know what it all means. She will 
expel me, for I have done worse than Maggie, and you said 
— yes, you did, Philippa, that you could forgive anyone 
who struggled hard to do right, but you couldn’t forgive 
anyone who drifted, and I have drifted — drifted!” 

The last words came very slowly, for the exhausted and 
starving girl could maintain her strength no longer, but 
tottered in Philippa’s arms, and had not Miss Jessop also 
rushed to her rescue, she would have fallen to the floor. 

[=58] 


A FULL CONFESSION AND FORGIVENESS 


“But you didn’t drift,” whispered Philippa, “and all 
the rest of your life you will be trying to do well. I know 
you will, and now you shall just lean against me, while Miss 
Jessop and the old man go to fetch a carriage.” 

It was in this way that Inez was brought back to Briar 
Hall, and received, not only by Miss Ferrier, but by her 
schoolfellows, and Miss Ferrier herself took the tired and 
exhausted girl in her arms and told to her be silent — to say 
nothing, and to feel no anxiety, until she was rested and 
refreshed; and thus Inez found herself being undressed and 
put to bed, and given a nourishing meal, and by and by 
Dorothy came and sat with her, and said : 

“You are not to talk, Inez, you are to rest. And Mother 
is coming, and she will be here this afternoon, and to- 
morrow morning you can tell us what you like. But you 
are to rest to-day.” 

Inez was too tired to do anything but obey. In her 
sleep she had dreams, but they were not dreadful ones. 
She thought that Sir Guy had come to her, and had 
said: 

“If you will follow my example, and learn that I, too, 
have had a dreadful fight, and have conquered in the end, 
you will find that to you, also, will be given the true spirit 
of the conqueror; for he who has nothing to overcome is not 
nearly so great as he who, having disadvantages, goes 
straight up the Hill Difficulty, and reaches the summit, and 
stretches forth his hand to the goal.” 

These thoughts mingled with other thoughts, which were 
childish and unimportant, came to Inez Dering during her 
long slumber; but the consequence was that, when evening 
arrived, she was refreshed and well, and could think clearly. 
Then she sat up and looked full at Dorothy. 

“I want to dress now,” she said, “and I want to see Miss 
Ferrier and Miss Jessop, and any of the girls who like to 
come, and, above all, Philippa.” 

[259] 


A MADCAP 


“Won’t you wait until Mother comes? She is expected 
in two hours from now,” said Dorothy. 

Inez took her cousin’s hand. 

“No,” she said, “I have things to do, and I want to get 
them over before Aunt Millicent arrives.” 

So Dorothy helped her cousin to dress, and when Inez’s 
toilet was complete she turned to Dorothy. 

“Please stay upstairs, or at any rate please don’t come 
down with me. I want to do what I have to do all alone; 
only kiss me first, Dolly. I do hope I’ll be a better girl to 
you in the future.” 

“We have always loved you, whatever you were,” was 
Dorothy’s response. 

Then Inez ran downstairs. Miss Ferrier was seated in 
her own room when a gentle tap at the door aroused her. 
She said “Come in,” and Inez entered. 

“I have come to tell you my story,” said the Spanish girl. 
“This is my story — this is why I did it.” 

She then related all about Fernandez, and all about his 
first interview with her and her last interview with him. 
She told how she had dreaded and shrunk from him, and 
what terror his presence inspired her with, particularly 
how it touched her pride; and how she felt she would do 
anything in all the world rather than let anyone know she 
was related to this dreadful man. 

“He had a power over me,” said the girl. “I shrank 
from him. I thought I could never, never confess that he 
was my cousin.” 

She told, further, about that day when he had invaded 
the room where Sir Guy’s portrait was, and of his deter- 
mination that she should meet him again there that day 
week. She told how he had snatched her necklace from 
her neck, and she had not power to resist him; how in her 
terror she had invented her headache, or rather determined 
to say that she had one, whether she had or not; and how 
she had locked her door, and stolen away, trusting to be back 
[ 260] 


A FULL CONFESSION AND FORGIVENESS 

before Miss Ferrier returned. She described with power 
her terrible interview with Fernandez in the room in the 
old castle; and then the awful night that followed — her 
despair, the thoughts which Sir Guy’s portrait had inspired 
her with, and finally her resolution that come what would 
she would clear her conscience by an absolute confession. 

“And that is all,” said Inez at last. “I have nothing 
more to say. I have been a very bad girl. I don’t know 
if there is any hope. There was Maggie here once — she 
could not have done as badly as I did.” 

“We will leave her out of the discussion,” said Miss 
Ferrier when the low voice of her new pupil had ceased. 
“ God took her, and she is answerable for what she did to 
him. As to you, Inez — oh my dear, don’t you understand, 
that having made full confession, full, full confession, dear, 
you are forgiven absolutely ? What else could anybody do ? 
When one repents as you have repented, does not God 
forgive? Should his weak children be less merciful?” 

“Then you are not angry with me? You don’t mean 
to cast me off?” said Inez, in surprise. 

“Come and kiss me, Inez. My feelings for you are all 
of hope, and all of love, and when your aunt comes I know 
she will be very happy, for this is a turning point, dear; 
and when we come to such a dividing of the roads, when 
we come to this point in life’s journey, with all the sober- 
ness and contrition that you have done, what is there for 
us but to stimulate love and inspire endeavour ? ” 

“Yes,” said Inez, “and I am so happy!” and she flung 
her arms round Miss Ferrier’s neck and kissed her. 


The End. 





































































































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